5October
I left the chemist on High Street clutching a bag of prescriptions, my mind fixed on just one thing: getting home without any mishap.
Stick. Step. Stick. Step. My leg ached, the bag cut into my palm. This October has been relentlessdamp, grey, offering no hint of mercy.
Another quartermile. A little further.
I was almost past the childrens playground when a faint whimper drifted from the hedges beside the fence.
I froze, held the breath for a second, told myself I was too weary to stopjust keep moving. Yet I turned back anyway.
I pushed the branches aside.
There, tangled in the shrub, lay a large, adult shepherddog, helpless. Its front leg was bleeding, the wound both fresh and dry at once. The fur was matted, ribs protruding starkly. But the worst part were its eyesalive, yet on the verge of giving up. Id seen those eyes before; I knew what they meant.
The dog stared at me without a growl. Just stared.
What am I to do with you? I murmured, more a sigh than a question.
I fumbled for my phone and dialed a taximy first call in months, as Id been pinching my pennies. I gave the address of the veterinary surgery on Forest Road.
When the driver saw the dog, his mouth twisted.
We dont normally carry animals, unless they go in the boot. You think it wont dirty it?
It wont, just help me get it in, I said, in the same flat tone Id used years ago with the indifferent nurses at the local hospital.
Surprisingly, he didnt argue. He lifted the dog himself and placed it gently in the boot.
At the surgery they diagnosed a broken leg, a ragged wound, and severe exhaustion. An operation was urgent.
They quoted a sum.
I paused, then opened my wallet. It held almost my entire pension.
Almost everythingbut not quite everything, I whispered to myself, and slid the money across the counter.
I trudged back home late that evening, the dog in the back seat, the bag of medicines and a twopage instruction leaflet in my other hand.
The moment we stepped into the flat, Gertiewhat Id later call hercollapsed onto the hallway carpet. I sat beside her.
She lay with her injured leg stretched out, eyes on me, not a flicker of attention toward me.
Fine then, I said. You dont have to look at me. The important thing is youre alive.
That night I hardly slept. I kept listening for any whimper, rose twice to check, flashing my phones torch for comfort.
Morning brought a call from my daughter, Marion.
Mum, how are you holding up?
Okay, love. Ive just rescued a dog.
Silence stretched.
What kind of dog?
A shepherd. She was bleeding in the hedges, I took her to the vet.
Mumare you serious? You can barely walk yourself! How are you affording this?
My own money.
My pension?
Marion, please dont shout.
Im not shouting, Im just talking. We agreedIm getting a spare room ready for you, youll move in soon, and youre doing this instead of helping us.
Marion, I said calmly, Ill call you later. I hung up.
After that conversation, other worries seemed smaller.
The first few days were brutal. Gertie refused food. I bought everything I could think ofpâté, boiled chicken, rice brothset a bowl down, stepped away, waited, came back to find it untouched.
I sat on the floor, groaning, and held a piece of chicken out of my palm. I didnt smile, just stayed still, terrified of scaring her away.
On the third day she nudged forward and took a tiny bite. It was almost invisible.
I didnt grin; I just sat, watching, hoping not to startle her.
I eventually named her Gertie, not immediatelyI wasnt sure Id keep her, but then I realised I would.
Gertie was terrified of everything: sudden noises, unfamiliar movements. When I first tried to stroke her head, she curled up as if bracing for a blow.
Whats wrong with you? I whispered.
I didnt keep petting her; I simply rested my hand near her, on the blanket, beside her leg. My hand lay there, no pressure, letting her get used to my presence.
Mornings and evenings we ventured out. Gertie descended the stairs on three legs, the fourth still being coaxed. I held the railing, my own legs feeling like two wooden stilts.
We reached the bench by the lone rowan tree and stopped. I would sit; Gertie would remain close, eyes scanning every direction, wary, as though danger lurked everywhere.
That routine stretchedfirst to the bench and back, then to the corner of the house, then around the whole courtyard. When I returned home, my legs throbbed, but not from weaknessmore from fatigue, a different kind of tiredness.
November saw Marion arrive without warning. She knocked, entered, and paused in the hallway, taking in the scene: Gertie curled on her blanket, bowls against the wall, leash on the hook, and me nursing a cup of tea.
Mum, you look okay, Marion said, uncertain, as if expecting something else.
I walk her twice a day, I replied. Sit, have some tea.
She sat, eyes flicking to Gertie, who lifted her head briefly.
She bite? Marion asked.
No.
And if a stranger comes in?
Shes not aggressive, just cautious.
Marion fell silent, then spoke again.
Mum, the spare room is ready. Ive done everything. Its easier for me when youre nearby. If you stay alone, who knows what could happen?
I set down the teacup.
Will you take the dog?
Dont Marion began, but I cut her off.
We have a small flat, and Tom isnt keen on pets. You know that.
I know, I said.
We didnt revisit the subject that night.
Gertie, as if sensing tension, trotted to the kitchen, lay at my feet on the chilly floor, and stretched. I lowered my hand and scratched behind her ear.
The next conversation unfolded in December. Marion arrived on a Saturday with suitcases, groceries, and the resolve of someone who had made a decision. She unpacked, washed dishes, then sat at the table, hands clasped as if preparing for a serious talk.
Mum, lets not be angry with each other.
I sat opposite her, hearing Gerties soft sighs in the background.
Alright, I said.
Ive arranged a proper kennel. They have a big yard, good people. Gertie would be better off there than in this onebed flat.
Gertie let out another sigh, padded to the doorway, glanced at us both, then settled beside me.
I hear you, I murmured quietly. I hear everything. I rested my hand on her head; she stayed still.
Do you remember when I used to work? I asked suddenly. You were a child then, but maybe you recall. Id leave at six a.m., come home to find you asleep. Your father used to say you didnt exist at home, only at the hospital.
Marion was silent.
I never resented him. I understood that those people had it harder than I did. I was needed. Then Dad died, I retired, and suddenly I felt useless. Youve got your own life now, thats right. Yet I didnt know what to do with myself.
Outside the window, December gloom settledearly dusk, street lamps already glowing.
When I found Gertie, I thought, another problem. I had no strength, no money, my health failing. Why bother? Then on the third day she took a tiny piece of chicken from my hand. That small bite taught me I wasnt losing sleep because I was tired; I was sleepless because it mattered. If I didnt look after her, who would?
Gertie nudged closer; I scratched her ear again.
Ive started walking farther now. First I could barely reach the bench; now I make three circles around the block without stopping. I cut my bloodpressure tablets two weeks agodoctor said it was safe. Ive met Valerie from the flats above; we sometimes walk together. I finally bought decent winter bootsfirst in three yearsbecause I used to think, why bother, I never go out.
I turned to Marion.
And now Im out, Marion.
She stared at me, wanting to say something, but held back.
I understand youre scaredof me falling, of no one being there to call an ambulance, of winter slips, of being alone. I felt that fear for Dad in his final years.
Whats wrong with that? Marion whispered.
Nothing. Im just not ready to be helpless yet. I gave a faint smile. Its early.
She dropped her gaze, and we sat in heavy silence.
Will you give her away? Marion asked.
And move out?
She nodded slowly, as if a piece of the puzzle finally fit.
Then I want you to have an emergency alarma bracelet you can press, and Ill get a call instantly.
Okay.
And Ill visit once a weeknot to check, just to see you.
Id like that.
She turned toward Gertie and said, Ill try to love her, even if I cant promise anything.
Im glad, I replied. Come here.
Marion rose, stepped forward, and I embraced her tightly. She held me for a breath, then returned the hug. Gertie slipped back to her blanket, content.
Outside, night had fully settled; the lamps shone steady, a thin layer of snow dusted the windowsill.
Winter slipped by unnoticed.
I didnt realise when December gave way to January, then February, and I kept walkingmorning and evening, through frost, thaw, snow, and slush. Gertie walked beside me, her leg fully healed; the vet said she was indistinguishable from a healthy dog.
In the courtyard, we were known. Valerie from the second floor always came out at the same time; we walked together, chatting about grandchildren, health, even politics, carefully. Old Mr. Sam from the third floor would stop by and offer Gertie treats, which she accepted with quiet dignity. Children on the playground initially flinched at the shepherddog, then grew accustomed and began to run up to her.
I left my walking stick at home in February. One day I stepped out without it, forgot it, returned to find it propped by the door, and smiled at my own forgetfulness.
In March I called the council to ask whether the country lane to the cottage was open. It was, so I booked the bus. Gertie sat on the rear platform, ears perked, watching the passing scenery.
The cottage was the same old stone house, last years fallen leaves, bare apple trees. I walked the garden, felt the soilstill cold but no longer frozen. I marked spots for phlox, petunias, dill and parsley, just for the scent.
Gertie bounded across the garden like a youngster.
April brought Marion back, this time with Tom. Tom entered, eyes widening at Gertie. She sniffed his hand, then backed away, as if to say, Ive checked youno danger.
Tom exhaled.
Well, he said cautiously, she seems calm enough.
Shes clever, I added.
Marion sipped tea, studied me, then whispered, almost unnoticed as Tom went out onto the balcony:
Mum, youve changed.
In a good way?
Yes.
I thought for a moment.
Im just living again, I suppose. It feels real.
Gertie rested her head on my knee.
I close this entry feeling the weight of the past months lift, even if only a little. The ache in my bones remains, but the ache of loneliness has softened. Tomorrow the walk will begin at the gate and end at the park, and Ill know Im not doing it alone.
