🐾 THE DOG WHO WAITED - A Gentle Soul, A Cruel Goodbye, And The Grieving Woman

 

 Image by AI

Sometimes the smallest hearts carry the biggest hope.

Story: S A Spencer

Author of Popular Fictions: The Pink Mutiny, The Black Waters, Dream In Shackles

He took off my collar. Then my leash. I wagged my tail anyway, because he said my name softly — and then he said, “I’m sorry, boy.” I knew that word. Sorry. It meant something bad had happened, or was about to. I nudged his hand with my nose, asking what he meant. He didn’t answer. He just stood up, walked back to the car, and closed the door.

I barked once, a small, confused sound. He didn’t look at me. The engine started. I ran after the car, paws burning on the road, crying out in little yelps. He didn’t slow. He didn’t turn. The car disappeared around the corner, and the smell of him faded into the wind.

I waited. Because that’s what dogs do. We wait.

 

 

 

 

 

I walked along the footpath, sniffing for anything familiar. Nothing smelled like home. My throat felt dry. My belly hurt. A man walked toward me — tall, calm, carrying a bag. He smelled kind. I wagged my tail, lowered my head politely, and made a soft “mmph” sound to say hello.

He crouched a little, and I stepped closer, sniffing his shoes. He spoke gently. I didn’t know the words, but I knew the tone. Safe. Warm. I followed him when he turned, hoping he’d take me somewhere cool, somewhere with water.

He led me toward a house. A dog barked from behind the gate — loud, sharp, angry. The man knocked. Another man came out, smelling of anger and impatience. The kind man pointed at me, saying something. The angry man snapped back, louder. His dog barked harder, teeth showing, pushing against the gate.

I whimpered and backed away, tail tucked. The kind man looked helpless, like he wanted to help but didn’t know how. He said something soft to me, then stepped away from the angry man’s house.

If even the man with the barking dog didn’t want me… who would?

 

 

 

 

 

My belly cramped. I needed to poo. I went to the footpath, but before I could finish, a woman across the road yelled, waving her arms, pointing at me. I froze. I didn’t know what she wanted. My human always picked up after me. But he wasn’t here.

I hurried to a bush and finished there, hiding myself. After that, I always went behind bushes. I didn’t want anyone to yell again. I wanted to be good. I wanted someone to like me.

I didn’t know how to be wanted, but I knew how to stay out of trouble.

 

 

 

 

 

Later, the kind man returned. I recognised his footsteps before I saw him. I ran to him, tail wagging so hard my whole body shook. I made a soft crying sound — not sad, just hopeful. He opened a tin. The smell hit me like a warm hug. I whined with gratitude and ate so fast my nose hit the bottom. He poured water, and I drank until my legs felt steady again.

I nudged his hand with my nose, asking if I could follow him home. He stepped back. He spoke into a small flat thing he held to his ear. His voice was gentle, worried. He kept looking at me. I tilted my head, trying to understand. I made a soft “rrr-oo?” sound.

He walked away with the empty tin.

I followed him a few steps, but he shook his head kindly.

I stopped.

That night was my first night outside. The ground was cold. The wind made strange noises. I shivered. I walked around until I found a garden with pruned branches piled neatly. Underneath, dry leaves had gathered. I pushed my nose into them — warm. I circled twice, then curled up. The leaves rustled softly around me, like a blanket.

I dreamed of footsteps that never came.

 

 

 

 

 

Morning light hurt my eyes. I walked slowly, sniffing for water. Then I heard a soft hiss. Sprinklers. I ran to them and drank, letting the cool spray hit my face. I shook myself, droplets flying everywhere. For a moment, I felt almost happy.

I stayed on the street. Something told me not to leave. Maybe the kind man would come back. Maybe my human would return. Maybe someone would see me.

Hunger came back like a stone. I went porch to porch, sniffing. Most doors stayed shut. But on the footpath, a crumpled packet smelled like chicken. I pawed it open. Chips. Bones. I licked the salt, chewed the softest bits, swallowed what I could. It wasn’t enough, but it kept me standing.

In the afternoon, the kind man returned. I ran to him, tail wagging wildly. He brought another tin. Another bowl of water. I ate slower this time, wanting to show him I could be gentle, polite, grateful.

When I finished, I followed him to his door. Inside, I saw two boys and a woman watching. The younger boy came out. He smelled like soap and sunshine. He touched my head gently. I leaned into his hand, closing my eyes. I lifted one paw, asking him to stay.

He said something to the man — his father. His voice was soft, pleading.

I tried to hug him, pressing my head against his chest.

He stepped back, surprised.

The door closed.

Maybe tomorrow someone would choose me.

 

 

 

 

 

Days passed. People began leaving bowls of water outside. A few left food. They talked to me sometimes. They called me “little mate” and “poor fella.” I wagged my tail at all of them. But no one took me home.

I kept going to the bush to poo. I didn’t want anyone to yell again. I wanted to be good.

I wanted someone to choose me.

Then one afternoon, a car slowed near me. A woman stepped out. She smelled like sadness — the kind that stays on clothes — but also warmth, like someone who still had love left.

She knelt down and looked at me the way humans look when they’ve been searching for something precious.

Her eyes filled with water.

She whispered a name I didn’t know.

Not my name.

But her voice trembled with hope.

I walked to her, tail wagging slowly, gently. I made a soft crying sound — the sound I made when I wanted to be held.

She opened her arms.

I let her lift me.

She held me tight, like she already knew me. Like she’d been waiting.

The kind man stepped out of his house. She turned to him.

“Is this him?” she asked. “The dog from your post?”

He nodded, smiling in a tired, relieved way.

“I’ve been looking for him for days,” she said, her voice breaking. “He looks just like my boy… I wasn’t ready for another, but when I saw your post… I had to come.”

I didn’t know what a post was.

I didn’t know how she found me.

I only knew she wanted me.

She needed me.

And I needed her.

She said the name again — the name that wasn’t mine.

But I didn’t mind.

Names don’t matter.
         Arms do.
        And hers felt like home.

🐾 AUTHOR’S NOTE

Thank you for reading this story. If it touched your heart, please ❤ like, 💬 comment, 🔁 share, and 🔔 subscribe to support more stories like this.

This story is inspired by real events, but all characters and situations are fictionalised for narrative purposes. No real individuals are portrayed.

Download thriller "The Black Waters" 99 Cents for  a limited time

• Follow me

• Facebook
• Twitter