Gary was certain a bit of DIY was far more important than his son’s feelings. The dog was taken to the rehoming centre, despite the boy’s pleas. But eleven days later, Mary walked into her son’s room and found a drawing, and everything turned upside down.
The bags sat by the front door. Two of them, to be precise: one held the bowls, the other the last of the kibble and a rubber ball that Buster had been carting around the flat ever since he’d learned to walk.
Liam spotted them before he’d even pulled off his trainers.
Buster nudged his nose into the boy’s knee and wagged his tail so fiercely he knocked the bag. The bowl inside clinked. His ginger fur smelled of the garden, autumn leaves, and something warm and utterly doggy that always made Liam’s chest feel tight. The boy crouched down, wrapping both arms around him. Buster went still, pressed his side against the checked shirt, and rested his muzzle on the boy’s shoulder.
His back left leg was ever so slightly wonky. The dog had limped on it since he was a puppy, and Liam was used to steadying him by the hip when he sat down.
The kettle was humming in the kitchen. Mum stood by the hob, twisting her wedding ring on her finger. Quick, habitual movements, the way she always did when she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Dad sat at the table, back straight, hands folded in front of him. A mug of tea sat dead centre of its saucer.
“Mum. What’s that for?”
Mary didn’t turn around. Her fingers on the ring sped up.
“Dad, why are the bags by the door?”
Gary drained his tea in one gulp. Set the mug back on the saucer with such precision it didn’t make a sound.
“Liam, we’ve decided. The dog’s going today.”
“Where?”
“The rehoming centre. Good place, I checked. Heated kennels, proper food.”
The boy looked at his mum. She was staring out the window, where a grey November sky was pressing down on the rooftops. The ring kept turning.
“Mum?”
The kettle clicked off. The silence that followed was filled by Buster breathing in the hallway.
“Mum, say something.”
Mary straightened the tea towel on the hook. Took it off, hung it back up, even though it was perfectly straight already.
“Your dad’s right, love. We need to do the decorating. It’ll be hard for the dog here with…”
“Buster! His name’s Buster!”
“…hard for Buster here. The paint fumes, the dust, all the tools on the floor. It could make him poorly.”
She spoke in that flat voice, the one that made every word sound rehearsed. Like she and Dad had practised the night before while Liam was asleep.
The boy gripped the edge of the chair. His knuckles went white.
“I’ll walk him three times a day. I’ll stay with him in my room. He won’t get in the way. Please.”
Gary stood up. The chair scraped across the laminate with a short squeak.
“I’ve said my piece, and that’s that. We’re leaving in half an hour.”
“Please. Please don’t.”
His voice went thin. Not childish, but fragile, like the words were passing straight through him without stopping. Buster scratched his claws on the floor tiles, hobbled into the kitchen, and sat down, leaning his side against Liam’s leg. He rested his muzzle on the boy’s knee.
And stayed still. The dog had brown eyes with little ginger flecks, and he looked up calmly. He didn’t understand. He trusted everyone in this house.
Mary squeezed her eyes shut. For a second, maybe two. Then she opened them and fished in her pocket for the car keys.
Liam grabbed his coat.
“Liam, you’d be better off staying here. You don’t need to see it.”
“No, I’m coming!” Liam was nearly in tears.
The car smelled of petrol and warm plastic. The sun wasn’t out, and the town outside the window looked like it had been drawn with a grey pencil on wet paper. Buster lay on the back seat, his muzzle resting on Liam’s knees. The boy didn’t cry. He sat upright, stroking the ginger head, his fingers moving slowly, steadily, as if memorising every bump, every little swirl of fur.
Gary glanced in the rearview mirror once. Looked away quickly.
Mary drove, thinking about the wallpaper in the hallway. About rollers, about the shade called ‘ivory’ they’d picked out last Saturday at the DIY store. In a month, the flat would be bright. Clean. No dog hair on the sofa, no click of claws in the mornings.
The centre was on the edge of town, behind some lock-ups. A grey building with a metal door. Inside, it smelled of bleach, damp concrete, and something sour and thick that made you want to breathe through your mouth. From deep within came barking. Not loud, not angry. Just lonely, like someone calling out and not really believing they’d be answered.
A woman in a green apron came out to meet them. She smiled at Buster, ruffled his ear.
“Lovely boy, the ginger one. We’ll sort him out, don’t you worry.”
Liam was holding the lead. With both hands, tight, so the leather strap was biting into his palms. His fingers had gone red from the tension.
“Liam, give it here.”
Dad held out his hand. A big palm, smelling of engine oil, open in front of the boy’s face.
Liam looked at the lead. Then at Buster. Then back at the lead.
And slowly, he let go.
The woman took the lead and led Buster down the corridor. The dog limped on his back left leg, and his claws clicked on the tiles, the sound echoing because the corridor was long and empty. At the turn, Buster looked back.
The woman turned the corner. The clicking got softer, softer. And then it was gone.
On the drive back, the boy sat behind the driver’s seat. Right where Buster had been lying ten minutes before. The upholstery still held his scent: warm fur, the garden, autumn leaves. Liam pressed his cheek against the seat and closed his eyes.
Mary reached for the radio. Gary shook his head. They drove home for twenty minutes. Not a single word.
At home, Liam took off his shoes, walked past the kitchen, and shut himself in his room. The door clicked quietly. It just closed.
Mary put the empty bags away, folded them neatly, and shoved them in the bin. Then she saw the bowl.
A red plastic bowl, with teeth marks along the rim. Buster had chewed it as a puppy, back when he didn’t know bowls weren’t for that. Mary picked it up, held it. The plastic was light and smooth, the tooth marks rough against her fingers. She put the bowl back on the floor.
The next day, they noticed odd things.
Liam didn’t ask what was for tea. Didn’t put the telly on. Didn’t even get his schoolbag out. Came home, took off his shoes, went to his room. Quiet as a shadow on the wall.
Mary knocked.
“Liam, do you want pasta? With cheese, the way you like it?”
The bed creaked from inside. And nothing else.
She stood by the door for half a minute. Listened to the silence. Then walked away.
That evening, Gary said he’d get used to it. Kids forget quickly. In a week, he’d be running around like normal. He said it confidently, standing in the hallway where you could still see the scratch mark on the wall that Buster had made in his first month.
On the fifth day, the teacher called. Her voice was careful, like someone stepping onto thin ice.
“Is everything all right at home?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“Liam isn’t answering in class. At all. He just sits, staring out the window. At break, he stands by himself against the wall. The other children try to talk to him, but he won’t say a word.”
Mary bit her lip.
“We… we rehomed our dog. Took him to a centre. He’ll get used to it.”
The teacher paused. A few seconds, and in that pause Mary heard more than in any words. Then the voice on the phone said:
“I see.”
That ‘I see’ hung in the flat all evening. Like the smell of paint that hadn’t even been opened yet, but was already there.
On the seventh day, Liam stopped coming to tea. Mary would put a plate down. Take it back untouched. The pasta would go cold and develop a skin, and for some reason that was unbearable.
Gary bought rollers and primer. Tore off the old wallpaper in the hallway. Underneath, the walls were grey, with patches of old glue and a crack running from floor to ceiling that had been hidden by a poster of a pirate ship. It smelled musty. It didn’t look any better. And it wasn’t any quieter, because the silence wasn’t the kind he’d been aiming for.
The red bowl was still in the kitchen. Mary couldn’t bring herself to get rid of it. Three times she picked it up, three times she put it back. On the fourth try, she turned it upside down. Then put it back the right way.
One day, Mary went into her son’s room while he was at school. Thought she’d tidy up.
On the table lay a drawing.
A house with a triangular roof and a chimney with smoke coming out. The sort of thing all kids draw. Next to it, a boy: stick legs, round head, arms out. And next to the boy, a ginger blob with four legs and a curly tail. The boy and the dog were drawn brightly, in red felt-tip and orange crayon, pressed down hard so the paper was dented.
And the house was empty. Windows without curtains, door wide open. Inside, no figures, no furniture. Just white.
No mum. No dad. Only white space behind the open door.
Mary sat down on her son’s bed. She picked up the drawing, brought it closer. At the bottom, under the house, in wobbly little letters: “Buster I will find u.”
No comma. No full stop. A promise written by a hand that hadn’t quite learned to make its letters even.
The ring on her finger pressed so hard that Mary took it off. She put it on the table next to the drawing. And sat there, staring at the wall, because she wasn’t thinking about wallpaper. Or the shade called ‘ivory’. Or fur and claws.
She was thinking about how her son had drawn a house she didn’t exist in.
That evening, Mary put the drawing in front of Gary. Didn’t explain. Just laid it on the table, next to his plate.
He looked at it for a long time. Then pushed his plate away.
“We’ll go get him.”
Mary blinked.
“Buster. Tomorrow morning.”
And that was him talking, not her. She’d been bracing herself for an argument, for having to shove the drawing under his nose. But Gary was staring at that empty house with no people in it, and something was shifting on his face, like his muscles didn’t know what expression to settle on.
“Tomorrow. First thing.”
Mary nodded. She wanted to say ‘thank you,’ but the word got stuck. There was nothing to thank him for. This wasn’t a gift. It was an attempt to fix something they’d broken themselves.
The next morning, they drove to the centre. Same metal door. Same smell of bleach and damp concrete. The woman came out to meet them, this time in a blue apron, but the same face.
Buster recognised them the moment they walked in. He hurled himself at the wire mesh of his kennel, started yelping, wagging his tail so hard his whole body shook. He’d lost weight in those days: his ribs were showing through his ginger fur, and his back left leg was wobblier than before. He hobbled towards them as fast as he could.
Gary took the lead. That same leather one, worn smooth. His hand wrapped around the strap like it had always belonged there.
Back home, Liam was in his room. Door shut.
Claws clicked on the hallway tiles. Softly. Unevenly, with a hitch every fourth step.
The bedroom door opened.
The boy stood in the doorway. Buster flung himself at him, shoved his nose into his stomach, licked his hand, his knee, his hand again. His tail thumped against the wall.
Liam dropped to the floor. His fingers buried themselves in the ginger fur, which smelled of the centre, of bleach, of other dogs. But underneath that smell was another one, the old one, the real one, the one that always made his chest feel tight.
He spoke the first word he’d said in days:
“Buster.”
Then he looked up. At his mum. At his dad.
Mary crouched down beside him.
“Liam, love…”
He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t lean in either. He just sat on the floor, hugging the dog, looking at them as if he was seeing them for the first time. And wasn’t sure he recognised them.
Buster licked the boy’s chin and settled down. Lay next to him, pressing his warm side close.
Mary poured kibble into the red plastic bowl with the teeth marks around the rim. Buster hobbled into the kitchen, claws clicking, and began to eat greedily, hurriedly. Liam sat beside him.
And Gary stood in the hallway, where the stripped walls smelled of damp and old glue. The roller lay in the corner, covered in dust. The primer had gone crusty in its tub. The crack from floor to ceiling was still there.
From the kitchen came the clink of a bowl on the floor and the sound of happy eating.
Gary stood and looked at the walls. The decorating hadn’t even started. And now it didn’t matter if it ever did. Because in this house, there was something else that needed fixing first.
