З життя
Волохатий рятівник
Шовкуття коліс і блимання дерев за вікном поїзда всипляли. Тарас дрімав, притулившись чолом до скла, міцно тримаючи велику рожеву коробку з лялькою — подарунком для шестирічної доньки. До дому лишалося їхати трохи більше години: відрядження добігало кінця, і він із нетерпінням чекав на зустріч із родиною.
Сон був неймовірно яскравим: рідний двір, кохана Оленка, Маринка — його маленьке сонечко. Навіть безпородний Бублик прийшов уві сні — той самий пес, якого Тарас не міг терпіти. Дрібний, марний, боязкий. Але Маринка випросила — принесла його щеням із вулиці, і батько, глянувши в її очі, здався.
Потяг різко гальмував. Тарас прокинувся. Навпроти сиділа незнайома жінка.
— Добрий день. Ми знайомі? — запитав він, збентежений.
— Ні, вибачте. Просто так зворушливо виглядало — такий серйозний чоловік із коробкою ляльки на колінах.
— Це донечці. З кожного відрядження стараюся щось привозити. Страшенно за нею сумую.
— Щаслива ж у вас родина…
— Це мені із ними пощастило, — усміхнувся він.
Він швидко дійшов до околиці містечка, мимо хрущовок, у бік свого приватного будинку. Побачив калітку — вона була відкрита. Подумав, що, мабуть, Оля із донькою вийшли його зустрічати. Але біля дому його зустріла бліда, налякана дружина.
— Тарасе! Маринка зникла!
Слова вдарили, як ніж. Усмішка зникла. Тарас поставив сумку біля паркану. Лялька так і лишилася в його руках.
Оля не могла зібрати думки. Розповіла, що чула доньку — вона гралася із Бубликом у пісочниці. Потім відійшла на кухню. Повернулась — тиша. Маринки ніде. Обійшла двір, вулицю, дім. Нічого.
— Калітка була зачинена?
— Маринка могла відчинити… Але вона знає, що не можна…
Вони кинулися шукати. Оббігли околиці. Кричали. Опитали сусідів. За годину зрозуміли — серйозно. Поліція. Пошуковий загін.
На місці дитячої пісочниці лишилися лише відро й сліди. Бублик теж зник.
— Можливо, він із нею, — замислено сказав капітан поліції.
Тарас не сумнівався: Маринка жива. Він піде в ліс, знайде її. Неважливо як. У футболці, незважаючи на нічний холод. «Маринці холодно — і я не зігріюся», — твердив він.
З ліхтарем у руках, у супроводі волонтерів, він прочісував ліс. Періодично зупинялися, гукали. Без відповіді. Тарас згадав, як одного разу забрав доньку з садочка і почув: «Тату, можна я залишу цуценятко?» — і вона показала на тремтячий комок.
Бублик став її вірним другом. Грів, коли вона хворіла. Сумнів, коли її не було. Більше, ніж собака. Майже ангел-охоронець.
І ось — у пітьмі мелькнула знахідка. Рожевий капелюшок. Потім босоніжок.
— Це її! — прохрипів Тарас.
Волонтери мовчали. Їхні погляди говорили багато. Але Тарас гнав від себе жах. «Жива. Вона жива. Я знайду її».
За кілька годин крики прорізали тишу. Група знайшла яр. Унизу — дівчинка. Бліда, подряпана, але жива.
— Тату… Я хочу пити… — прошепотіла вона, коли опинилася в батькових обіймах.
— Зараз, серденько. Усе добре.
І тільки коли піднялися догори, Маринка підвелася:
— Бублик там… Він не зміг сам вилізти…
Пса знайшли. Пораненого, зі зламаною лапою. Поповз за людьми, щоб вони помітили його й Маринку.
Вранці ветеринар подивився на Бублика:
— Усипляти?
— Ні. Лікувати. Він врятував мою дитину.
За два тижні Маринка знову бігала у дворі. А поряд — Бублик, трохи кульгаючи, радісно гавкав. І в кожному русі цього маленького, лохматого пса було більше вірності й любові, ніж у словах.
Він виявився не просто корисним. Він став героєм. Справжнім.
A Sold Friend: Grandad’s Tale And He Understood Me! It Was No Fun – I Realized What a Foolish Idea It Was. I Sold Him. He Thought It Was a Game, Until He Realized I’d Truly Sold Him. Times, After All, Are Different for Everyone. For Some, All-Inclusive Isn’t All That Generous, While Others Just Dream of Fresh Bread and Sausage. That’s how we lived – each in our own way, with all sorts of ups and downs. I was little back then. My uncle – Uncle George – gave me a shepherd puppy, and I was over the moon. The pup bonded with me, understood me at a glance, looked into my eyes and waited, waited for my signal. “Lie down,” I would say after a pause, and he would lie, gazing up at me loyally as though ready to die for me. “Serve,” I commanded, and the puppy would clamber up on chubby legs and freeze, swallowing anxiously, waiting for a reward – a tasty treat. But I had nothing to spoil him with. We were barely managing ourselves. Times were tough. My uncle, Uncle George, my mum’s brother who had given me the puppy, once said to me: “Don’t be upset, lad. Look how loyal he is! Sell him, then call for him, and he’ll run back to you. No one will see. You’ll have some money for a treat for you and your mum, and for him too. Trust me, I’m telling you something useful.” The idea sounded good to me. I didn’t realize then how wrong it was – an adult suggested it, and besides, it’d just be a joke, and I could get a treat. I whispered into Loyal’s warm, furry ear that I’d give him away, then call him back, so he should come to me and escape from strangers. And he understood me! He barked, as if to agree. The next day, I put on his lead and walked him to the station. Everyone sold things there – flowers, cucumbers, apples. The crowd poured off the train, and people began buying, haggling. I stepped forward a little, pulling my dog closer. But no one approached. Almost everyone had gone when a man with a stern face came over. “You there, lad, waiting for someone, or maybe you want to sell your dog? Good, strong pup – I’ll take him,” and he pressed some money into my palm. I handed him the lead. Loyal looked around and sneezed happily. “Go on, Loyal, go with him, my friend,” I whispered, “I’ll call you, come to me.” And he went off with the man. Hiding, I watched where they went. That evening, I brought home bread, sausage, and sweets. Mum asked sternly: “Did you steal this from someone?” “No, Mum, I helped carry some things at the station, and they paid me.” “Well done, son. Now eat and let’s go to bed – I’m exhausted.” She didn’t even ask about Loyal; she didn’t care. Uncle George came by in the morning. I was getting ready for school, but all I wanted was to go call for Loyal. “So,” he chuckled, “sold your friend?” and ruffled my hair. I pulled away, refusing to answer. I hadn’t slept all night, and couldn’t eat my bread and sausage for the lump in my throat. It wasn’t fun – I realized what a stupid idea it had been. No wonder Mum never liked Uncle George. “He’s daft, don’t listen to him,” she’d always say. I grabbed my schoolbag and dashed from the house. It was three blocks to that man’s house, and I ran the whole way. Loyal sat behind a tall fence, tied up with a thick rope. I called him, but he looked at me sadly, head on his paws, tail wagging, trying to bark though his voice broke. I’d sold him. He thought it was a game, but then realized I had truly sold him. The owner came out, scolded Loyal, and he tucked in his tail. I knew then it was hopeless. That evening I worked at the station carrying bags. They paid little, but it was enough. Scared, I went to the gate and knocked. The man opened the door. “Oh, it’s you again. What do you want?” “Sir, I changed my mind,” I stammered, handing him the money he’d given me for Loyal. He squinted at me, took the money, and untied Loyal. “Here, lad. Take him. He’s been pining, not cut out for a guard dog – but mind, he may never forgive you.” Loyal looked at me mournfully. Our game had become a trial for us both. Then he walked over, licked my hand and pressed his nose into my stomach. Years have passed since then, but I know now: you never sell a friend, not even as a joke. And Mum was so glad: “I was exhausted yesterday, then remembered – where’s our dog? I’m used to that boy, he’s part of the family, our Loyal!” After that, Uncle George hardly ever visited. We didn’t find his jokes funny anymore.
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