Victor first saw the little dog on a damp country lane in October.
The puppy was huddled on the verge of the A36, wet and tiny, watching the passing lorries as if waiting for someone in particular. Victor was on his way to the cottage to dig up potatoes, eased the van for a moment, thinking the creature would simply look on. But the pup lifted its head, and everything changed. The potatoes stayed in the earth for another week.
He named the dog Mars. The name came from Mrs. Vera Harper, the neighbour, who spotted the reddishearflanked animal in the hallway and said, A ginger, nosy, clumsy oneMars. Perfect.
Victor laughed at the suggestion.
Mars grew fast. By spring he was taking up the whole left side of the sofa, convinced that was his right. At first Victor scolded him, then he stopped. Sleeping alone in the flat was worse than sharing a bed with a dog that snored and occasionally kicked in his sleep.
Their friendship didnt spark instantly; it developed slowly, like the kind that forms between people who have nowhere urgent to be. Morning walks, a bowl of food at seven oclock, the television. Occasionally Victor talked aloud to Mars, and the dog sat beside him, ears perked, only yawning now and then, baring his teeth in a lazy grin.
Youre right, Victor would say. Enough. And he would switch the TV off.
—
The accident happened in April on the way back from an evening stroll.
Victor could only recall fragments: the road was slick, the car skidded onto the pavement, Mars was on a leash that suddenly snapped. Victor was thrown against the curb, hit his side, lay there for a few seconds listening only to his own breathing and a distant shout.
When he got up, Mars was gone.
The broken leash lay on the tarmac, its plastic clasp split in two.
Victor searched until midnight, combing three neighbourhood blocks, calling the dogs name, asking passersby. Most shook their heads. One lady said she had seen a reddish dog dart towards the railway crossing about forty minutes earlier, but she hadnt seen it since.
Back home, Victor sat at the kitchen table staring at an empty bowl. He then printed twenty flyers, stuck them to lamp posts, and called three local veterinary practices and the animal shelter on Willow Street.
If a ginger mixedbreed turns up, please call. Heres my number, he told each receptionist.
A week passed. Then a month. The flyers faded under May rain, and Victor replaced them. He did it again in June. The vets remained silent. The Willow Street shelter called twice, each time by mistake it wasnt the right dog.
In July Mrs. Vera Harper, from the doorway, said cautiously, Victor, maybe you should get another dog. The shelter has plenty.
No, Victor replied. She never brought it up again.
The flat without Mars felt odd. It wasnt empty; the fridge hummed, neighbours thumped upstairs at half past nine as usual, but something had shifted.
Victor picked up an old rubber ball that Mars used to chase down the corridor. He put it on a shelf, then tucked it away, then retrieved it again, and left it on the shelf once more.
Each morning his hand reached instinctively for the leash hanging by the door, though there was nowhere to go.
He began walking the same route at the same time, just without Mars. He could not explain why; he simply walked.
In August his daughter, Ethel, called from Manchester.
Dad, come and stay with us for a while, she said.
I cant, Victor answered.
Why?
He was silent, then said, Maybe hell come back.
Ethel was quiet too, then replied, Alright, in a voice that meant she had something else in mind but chose not to say it.
Mars returned in October.
Victor heard a scratching at the front door around eight in the evening. At first he thought it was a draft, a squeak from the stairwell, but the noise persisted, patient, as if someone knew the door would open eventually.
He opened it.
On the doormat sat Mars.
He was older now. Some of his fur was clipped where wounds had healed, the left side of his flank a little scarred. Around his neck hung a leather collar, brown with a brass buckle and a small tag that read, in neat lettering, Buddy.
Victor stood in the doorway, watching the dog. Mars stared back, his right ear drooping, a ginger starshaped patch on his forehead, the same amber eyes framed by dark lashes.
Where have you been? Victor asked.
Mars stepped over the threshold, moved through the flat as if he knew every piece of furniture by heart. He headed straight for his bowl, which was, of course, empty.
Victor closed the door, went to the kitchen, his hands trembling slightly as he opened the fridge.
Its alright, he whispered to himself. Its alright.
The next morning he took Mars to the local vet. They gave him the necessary vaccinations, checked his microchip, and examined the foreign collar. The vet lifted the tag and read aloud, Buddy.
Is that another name? Victor asked.
Someone gave him a different name, the vet replied. He lived with someone else for about six months. I dont know where.
The vet looked at Victor, then at Mars, then back at Victor.
Sometimes dogs wander off and later find their way back, she said. Especially the clever ones.
Victor said nothing, simply watching Mars sit calmly on the metal examination table.
On the back of the tag was a phone number. From the car, Victor dialed it while Mars rested on the back seat, his head pressed against the window.
After three rings the call was answered.
Hello?
Good afternoon, Victor said. You had a dog, a ginger. You called him Buddy.
A long silence.
Yes, a mature womans voice finally replied. He was with us. He left in September. Weve been looking.
Hes with me now. His name is Mars. He disappeared in April.
Silence again, then the woman spoke.
He lived here. We fed him, treated his wounds.
Thank you, Victor said.
Hes a good dog.
Yes.
A pause.
Do you live far from Birchwood Lane? she asked.
Another district, Victor answered.
Oh dear. He turned up at our gate in April, just lay there and never left.
Victor stared at the grey, leafless park outside his windscreen.
The conversation ended on its own. Victor hung up. Mars snored softly on the back seat, his head resting on his folded paws.
At home Victor removed the unfamiliar collar, placed it on the dining table and studied it. Brown leather, sturdy, the tag still saying Buddy. A wellmade piece, not cheap.
Six months with another family, and the dog had still found his way back.
Victor thought of the woman from Birchwood Lanehow she had fed, petted, and become attached to him, only to lose him again in September. He imagined her calling, posting notices, hoping.
He picked up the phone again.
This is Victor again, he said when she answered. If youd like to visit, Im happy to arrange it.
Silence.
Really? she asked.
Really.
She arrived on a Saturday. Mrs. Gladys Parker, sixtyfour, in a grey coat and a satchel that held apple jam and a bag of dog biscuitsexactly the treats Mars had grown to love over those months.
Mars saw her from the hallway and didnt bolt. He padded over, nudging her hand with his nose, tail wagging.
They shared tea. Gladys told how shed found him by a fence in April, taken him to the vet, and how hed been frightened at first but soon settled. Victor recounted the crash, the broken leash, the flyers.
Mars lay between them, dozing, occasionally lifting his head to look at each of them.
He chose us both, Gladys said.
Victor glanced at the dog, then at the woman beside him.
Seems so.
Victor kept the Buddy collar in a drawer, not discarding it.
Mars reclaimed the left side of the sofa and resumed his nightly raids on the hallway ball. The flyers on the lampposts soaked in November rain and fell away on their own.
Gladys visited each Saturday, bringing jam, sometimes asking for advice about blackcurrantsshe tended a garden on Birchwood Lane, and Victor helped with the vegetables. They talked while Mars napslept between them.
One evening Victor pulled the leather collar with the Buddy tag from the drawer, held it up. The brass tag glimmered under the lamp.
Two leashes hung by the entrance: a red, worn one, and a new blue one that Gladys had quietly added one Saturday, never asking permission.
Through all the wandering, loss, and return, Victor learned that love, once given, does not simply vanish with distance. It may travel, get misplaced, and even wear a different name, but the bond remains. The lesson lingered as he watched Mars curl up beside him each night: true loyalty endures, no matter how far a heart may roam.
