“Either you take him today, or I’m just going to tie him to a fence by the main road,” the man in the expensive designer jacket snapped, shoving the leash across the counter.
Megan looked up from the appointment ledger and gritted her teeth. At the other end of the lead sat a large black dog with intelligent eyes. He wasn’t barking, lunging, or whining. He just watched the man with a look that suggested he understood everything.
“And where is the owner?” Megan asked calmly.
“Dead,” the man cut her off. “My uncle. A stroke, a hospital stay, then the end. I don’t want the dog. I’ve got kids.”
“Just because you don’t want him doesn’t mean you can toss him out like a piece of old furniture,” Megan said softly.
“I don’t need a lecture! I’ve literally just come from the funeral.”
He was lying. Megan knew it instantly.
A man who had just buried a loved one doesn’t smell of high-end cologne and fresh tobacco. Nor do his eyes gleam like someone who is already mentally calculating the square footage of an inherited property.
“What’s the dog’s name?”
“Buster.”
The dog’s ears twitched slightly at the sound of his name.
“Are there any papers for him?”
“What papers? He’s a mutt. Lived with my uncle, guarded the flat. Now it’s over. End of story.”
Megan stepped out from behind the counter, knelt before the dog, and held out her hand. Buster sniffed her palm and let out a heavy sigh. Around his neck was an old leather collar with a metal tag. It read: “Buster. If lost, please return home.” Below that was an address.
“The story only ends when a man’s conscience does,” Megan said, standing up. “Leave your phone number. I’ll call you once we find a foster place.”
“No fosters. I don’t have time. I’m leaving town.”
“Then take the dog back with you.”
The man waved her off.
“Fine by me.”
He turned sharply, intending to yank the leash back, but Buster suddenly planted all four paws firmly on the floor and let out a low growl. Not at Megan—at him. The man turned pale, cursed under his breath, and let go of the lead.
“Keep the damn thing,” he spat. “He won’t last long anyway. Not without his master.”
A minute later, the glass door of the clinic clicked shut.
Buster stayed.
Megan worked as the receptionist and vet assistant in a small private practice on the ground floor of an old converted house. Dozens of animals passed through her hands every shift, but for some reason, she felt an immediate bond with this dog.
Perhaps it was that gaze. It didn’t even feel like a dog’s look; it was something deeply human—tired, patient, and wounded.
There was nowhere to keep Buster overnight; all the kennels were filled with post-op patients. Megan brought a blanket into the utility room, providing a bowl of water and food. The dog didn’t touch the food. He simply lay by the door, resting his chin on his paws.
“Upset?” Megan asked.
Buster slowly raised his eyes.
“Or are you waiting?”
He blinked, then stared back at the door.
That night, a sleet began to fall.
The next morningMegan arrived at the clinic earlier than usual, only to find the utility room empty and Buster gone.
