Granddad, Look! – Lily Pressed Her Nose Against the Window – A Puppy!

Granddad, look! Ethel presses her nose against the window. A dog!

A mangy stray darts around the gate. Black, filthy, ribs jutting out.

Not that mutt again, grumbles George Whitaker, pulling on his knitted wellies. It’s been three days now. Go away!

He waves a stick. The dog flinches but doesn’t bolt. It sits about five metres away and simply watches. Just watches.

Granddad, don’t shoo it! Ethel claws at his sleeve. It’s probably hungry and cold!

I’ve got enough of my own worries! the old man snaps. It’ll bring fleas, disease. Off it goes!

The dog tucks its tail and backs off. Yet when George disappears behind the door, it returns.

Ethel has lived with her grandfather for six months, ever since her parents perished in the hills. George took her in, though he never liked children. He preferred quiet and his own routine.

Now a girl cries at night, constantly asking, Granddad, when will Mum and Dad come back? How can he explain that they never will? He mutters and turns away. It’s hard for both of them, but theres nowhere else to go.

After lunch, while George dozes in front of the television, Ethel slips out into the yard, a bowl of soup remnants in her hands.

Come here, Molly, the girl whispers. Ive named you that. Its a lovely name, isnt it?

The dog crawls forward cautiously, laps the bowl clean, then lies down, head on its paws, looking up at her with gratitude.

Youre a good girl, Ethel strokes her. Very good.

From that moment Molly never leaves the cottage grounds. She guards the gate, walks Ethel to school, meets her back. Whenever George steps outside, his voice booms across the lane:

There you are again! How many times must I say

But Molly already knows: the man barks, but he doesnt bite.

Neighbour Sam Brown, puffing on his pipe by the fence, watches the little drama and says:

Youre driving her away for nothing, George.

As if! I need a dog as much as a toothache!

Perhaps, Sam lingers, God didnt send her here by mistake.

George merely snorts.

A week passes. Molly stays at the gate in rain or frost. Ethel still sneaks food to her, and George pretends not to notice.

Granddad, can we let Molly into the hall? the girl nags at dinner. Itd be warmer there.

No, and no again! he slams his fist on the table. Animals have no place inside!

But she

No but! Enough of your whims!

Ethel pouts, then falls silent. That night George cant sleep. In the morning he looks out the window. Molly lies curled up on the snow. Shell die soon, he thinks, a sour feeling rising in his gut.

On Saturday Ethel heads to the pond to skate. Molly, as always, follows. The girl spins on the ice, laughing, while the dog watches from the bank.

Watch me! Ethel shouts, racing toward the centre.

The ice gives a thin crack.

Then a loud snap.

Ethel plunges through. The water is black and icy. Shes pulled under. She flails, screams, but the splashes drown her voice.

Molly freezes for a heartbeat, then darts toward the cottage.

George is chopping wood. He hears a wild, desperate bark. He turns: the dog rushes across the yard, snarling, lunges at his trouser leg, dragging him toward the gate.

Whats wrong with you? the old man mutters, bewildered.

Molly keeps pulling, snarling, snapping at his clothing, eyes filled with panic.

At last George shouts:

Ethel! and sprints after the dog.

Molly darts forward, glancing back as if checking whether hes coming. She rushes toward the pond.

George spots the black water and hears faint splashes.

Hold on! he roars, grabbing a long branch. Hold on, love!

He scrambles over the cracking ice, which bends but holds. He snatches Ethels coat, hauls her to the shore, while Molly circles, barking encouragement.

When they pull her out, shes blueblack. George rubs snow on her skin, blows warm air on her face, whispers prayers.

Granddad, Ethel whispers hoarsely. Molly, wheres Molly?

The dog sits trembling beside her, shivering from cold or fear.

Shes here, George croaks. Right here.

After that rescue something shifts. George no longer yells at the dog, though he still keeps her outside.

Granddad, why? Ethel presses, She saved my life!

Saved, did she? he grumbles. Theres still no room for her.

Why not?

Because thats how I run the house! he bellows.

He feels angry at himself, not understanding why his heart feels like its being clawed.

Sam drops by for a cup of tea. They sit at the kitchen table, smoking.

Heard what happened? Sam begins cautiously.

Heard, George mutters.

Good dog, clever.

It happens.

Shed deserve looking after.

George shrugs:

We look after what we need. Not the mutts.

You should.

We love people, not stray dogs!

Sam falls silent, realizing arguing is pointless, but his eyes hold a reproach.

February turns brutally cold. Snow drifts pile up as if winter wants to claim the village. George spends his days shovelling paths, only to find deep drifts waiting each morning.

Molly remains at the gate, thin as a bone, her coat ragged, eyes dim, yet she never leaves her post.

Granddad, Ethel tugs at his sleeve, look at her. Shes barely alive.

She chose to stay, George waves her off. No one forced her.

But she

Enough! he snaps. Im fed up with this dog!

Ethel sulks and retreats to her room. That evening, while George reads the newspaper, she whispers:

Mollys not been seen today.

So? he grunts without looking up.

All day. Maybe shes sick?

Maybe she finally left. Thats where she belongs.

Granddad! How can you say that?

What else can I say? he puts down the paper, meets her eyes. She isnt ours. Shes a stray. We owe her nothing.

We do owe her, Ethel says softly. She saved me. And we gave her no warmth.

No room! George slams his fist again. This isnt a zoo!

Ethel sniffles and runs to her bedroom. George remains at the table, the newspaper now unread.

That night a blizzard rattles the house, shaking the walls, rattling windows. George tosses in bed, unable to sleep.

Dog weather, he thinks, cursing himself, what does it matter to me?

But it does, and he knows it.

Dawn brings calm. He rises, brews tea, looks out. The yard is buried under snow up to the windows. The garden path has vanished; only a lone bench sticks out. Near the gate

Something dark peeks out of the drifts.

Probably rubbish blown in, he mutters, but his heart tightens.

He pulls on his coat, slips into his wellies, steps outside. The snow is deep, kneehigh. He trudges to the gate and stops.

In the snow sits Molly, motionless. Snow covers her up to the ears and the tip of her tail.

Shes dead, he thinks, then feels a strange tug inside. He brushes the snow away. The dog is barely breathing, a faint wheeze. Her eyes remain closed.

Damn, he whispers. Why didnt she go?

Molly shivers at his voice, tries to lift her head but fails.

George stands there, watching.

Fine, shes mine now, he decides, lifting the thin body gently. Shes light bone and fur but still warm.

He carries her inside, first to the hallway, then to the kitchen, laying her on an old blanket by the stove.

Granddad? Ethel appears in her nightgown at the doorway. Whats happened?

She froze out there, he stammers. Lets warm her up.

Ethel darts forward:

Shes alive? Granddad, is she?

Alive, alive. Get her some warm milk.

Right away! she hurries to the stove.

George crouches by the dog, patting her head, wondering, What sort of man am I? Ive left her halfdead, yet she never left.

Mollys eyes flicker open. She looks at him, gratitude shining through. He feels a lump in his throat.

Milks ready! Ethel places a bowl beside the dog.

Molly lifts her head, licks the milk, then another, then another. George and Ethel sit nearby, watching as she drinks, both smiling as if a small miracle has occurred.

By lunch Molly sits calmly; by evening she pads around the kitchen on trembling paws. George occasionally glances at her, muttering:

This is only temporary, understand? Shell get stronger, then back outside!

But Ethel only smiles, noticing how Granddad slips extra pieces of meat to her, wraps her in a thicker blanket, rubs her head when he thinks no one watches.

She wont be shooed away again, the girl thinks.

The next morning George rises early. Molly lies on a rug by the stove, watching him intently.

Well, youre back, then? he grumbles, pulling on his trousers. About time.

The dog wags her tail cautiously, as if testing whether hell send her out again.

After breakfast George dons his coat and steps into the yard. He walks along the fence, lights a cigarette, stops by an old doghouse near the shed thats been abandoned for years.

Lily! he calls into the house. Come here!

The girl bursts out, with Molly trotting close behind. The dog stays near Ethel, no longer looking at George.

Look, he points at the doghouse. The roofs caved in, the walls rotted. We should fix it.

Why, Granddad? Ethel asks.

What for? he growls. Its a waste of space.

He drags out boards, a hammer, nails, and starts repairing, cursing each stubborn piece. Molly watches nearby, seeming to understand his effort.

By noon the doghouse gleams with a new roof. George drags an old blanket inside, sets up bowls for food and water.

There, he says, wiping sweat from his brow. All done.

Granddad, Ethel whispers, is that for Molly?

Who else? George snorts. She has no place inside the house, but she deserves a proper spot out here.

Ethel throws her arms around him:

Thank you, Granddad! Thank you!

Enough of the mush, he waves her off. Remember, its only temporary until we find her proper owners.

Deep down he knows no one will adopt her; she belongs to them now.

Neighbour Sam strolls by, eyes the freshly repaired doghouse, the dog, and Ethels eager grin. He smirks:

See, George? I told you God sent her for a reason.

Leave your God out of it, George mutters. Its just a bother.

Youre a kind man, you just keep it buried, Sam says. Thats why shes here.

George wants to argue but stays silent, watching Molly sniff her new home, Ethel patting her head, feeling that at last theyre a family. Imperfect, perhaps strange, but a family.

Alright, Molly, he says quietly. This is your home now.

The dog meets his gaze, then settles beside the doghouse, keeping an eye on the door where the people she loves live.