I made a corner for the dog—a blanket, a bottle of warm water, a bowl. He ate from my hand, seeking my touch, my voice, my warmth. Nadja and I watched him secretly. We laughed like children. It was good.
Until my mother-in-law opened the door.
“What kind of zoo is this?!”
She froze.
“This isn’t a shelter. Get it out! No dogs!” she said, not even looking at him.
I left. I thought she’d get over it, we’d talk. But when I came back, he was gone.
“Where is he?”
“I took him to the dump. Where did you get him?”
Without a word, I left, got in the car, and searched for him for hours. I found him under a box at the market. He was shaking. He saw me. He recognized me. A yelp, a jump—and he was in my arms. But I didn’t go home with him—we went to the allotment. We spent that night together—me on the camp bed, him at my feet, his muzzle on my shoe. He slept as if he were afraid to wake up.
From then on—every weekend. I planted trees, built him a kennel. He grew. He looked into his eyes. He waited.
And then Fyodorovna fell ill. The doctors said—air, silence. I took her to the garden plot. He slowly walked out, approached, and sat at her feet.
“Who is that?”
