The Story of Arthur

Arthur was a large, shaggy dog with dark brown fur, a face like a teddy bear, and big, soft brown eyes that often conveyed a deep sadness.

He lived with Marin and her young son, Tim, in a small suburban house where days were filled with games in the yard, walks in the nearby park, and friendly squabbles over the best spot by the fireplace on cold winter evenings.

Arthur adored Tim. They were inseparable – playmates, nap buddies, and even sleep companions, as Arthur always occupied a part of Tim’s bed, faithfully guarding him from monsters under the bed.

Arthur’s world was simple and happy, revolving around the two people who loved him unconditionally.

But, as often happens, a cloud of sadness slowly appeared on the horizon. Marin, a hardworking and dedicated woman, had started talking about “problems” at work.

The word “restructuring” often flew through her phone conversations, and Arthur, with his keen sensitivity, felt the anxiety in her voice. Tim’s school days grew longer, and Marin had to work more and more, leaving Arthur alone at home for hours.

The happy wagging of his tail when he heard the key in the door was no longer as vigorous; he had learned that entry would often be followed by Marin speaking quietly on the phone and Tim going straight to his room.

Then, the day came when the suitcases appeared. Large, old suitcases that Arthur remembered from rare vacations. This time, they weren’t filled with beach toys or swimsuits. They were filled with clothes, books, and other familiar items from home.

And then, Marin started putting things into boxes. Large cardboard boxes, where each item found its place, moving from shelves and tables. Arthur wandered around their feet, confused, seeking an explanation with his big eyes.

They both petted him and spoke in soft voices, but there was no explanation. Just, “We’re going to another place, Arthur. It will be good.”

The words were meaningless to him. What he understood was change. The smell of the house was changing, the rhythm of life was changing. Tim was less and less at home, and when he did come home, he was quiet, with red eyes. Sometimes, Arthur would jump onto Tim’s bed, licking his face gently, trying to comfort him, but Tim would just hug him tightly and cry silently.

Finally, the big day arrived. The car. A car filled to the brim, with little room for Arthur. He got into the back, resting his head on Tim’s lap. The journey was long, full of stops and interruptions.

When they arrived, it was another house. An empty house, without the familiar scent of the old one. None of his familiar belongings were there. Not his bed, not his bowls, not his toys. Nothing. Just Marin and Tim, tired and sad, sitting on the cold floor.

The first few days were a nightmare. Arthur didn’t eat, didn’t play. He just lay in a corner, listening to the strange voices and watching his two beloved humans move like shadows. The new house was smaller, and the yard was just a concrete patch.

Walks were rare, and the old park was miles away. The absence of the old house, the familiar smell of the yard, and his human and canine friends weighed heavily on him.

Then, one day, Marin held Arthur in her arms and sat with him on the empty sofa. “Arthur,” she said softly, “We can’t keep you anymore.” Her words were like a sword piercing his heart. He didn’t understand the exact meaning, but he understood the tone, the feeling of deep sadness. He felt her tears on his fur.

The following days were filled with a sad anticipation. People came and looked at Arthur. Some petted him, some spoke to him, but none felt right. His eyes remained sad, fixed on the door, waiting for the return of a life he had lost.

Until that day, when another car, different from the one that had brought him there, stopped in front of the house. A woman with gray hair and gentle eyes stepped out. She spoke to Marin in a low voice, and Arthur felt his heart beat with a fast, frightening rhythm. This was it. This was the separation.

Marin hugged him one last time, kissed him on the head, and Arthur heard a muffled cry from Tim’s room. The new woman gently put him in her car. Arthur gave one last look at the empty house, the window where Tim used to hide, and then the car drove off.

He didn’t know where he was going, but he felt a great weight in his heart. He smelled the last scent of Marin and Tim on his old shirt that the new woman had placed on his lap. The scent of the old house, of happy days, of memories.

And then, the car stopped. The woman took him out of the car, and Arthur saw a large building, with many cages, and many dogs barking and crying. It was an animal shelter. She led him through the corridors, speaking to him in a soft voice, but Arthur wasn’t listening.

He only felt the sense of loss, of abandonment. He was placed in a small cage, with an old blanket and a bowl of water. He sat down slowly, huddled, his eyes fixed on the door, waiting for a miracle.
Days passed. One after another. He ate little, slept a lot, and dreamed of the old days.

He saw Marin laughing, Tim hugging him, the green yard where they played. But then, he would wake up, and he was back in the cage, surrounded by the noises of the shelter.

His sadness was deep, visible in his large, dark eyes, which never lost the glimmer of a small hope that maybe, just maybe, they would come back for him.

One morning, the door to his cage opened. He lifted his head, uninterested. A tall man, with gray hair and a warm smile, knelt before him.

“Hello, handsome,” the man said. Arthur ignored the hand offered to him. He didn’t want to be touched. He had lost faith in people. The man sat down slowly and began to speak softly, telling stories about his own dogs, talking about his life on the farm, about his children who had grown up, and about the emptiness they had left behind. Arthur listened, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.

The man came every day for a week. And every day, he sat by Arthur’s cage, speaking softly, reading books, or just sitting in silence. Slowly, very slowly, Arthur began to lift his head when the man spoke. Then, one day, he moved a little when the man extended his hand. And finally, one morning, when the man spoke to him in his warm voice, Arthur lifted his head and touched his hand with his cold nose. The man smiled. “That’s good, Arthur,” he said. “A small step.”

The man took Arthur for short walks around the shelter yard. Then, longer walks. Arthur was still sad, but the man’s presence, his calmness, began to foster a small spark of trust in his broken heart. The man didn’t try to force Arthur to do anything, he simply offered his presence, his patience.

One day, the man told Marin that he wanted to take Arthur. Marin came to the shelter, crying, hugging Arthur, apologizing endlessly. Arthur felt her sadness, but he didn’t respond as he had before. He was changed, broken.

And then, the day of departure came. The man took Arthur, and he got into the car, this time, without any toys, without any old scent to comfort him. Just a new, clean blanket, with the man’s scent. The car drove off, and this time, there were no tears or overt despair in Arthur’s eyes. There was only an unknown feeling, a mixture of fear and… perhaps hope?

The car traveled for hours, passing trees and fields. Arthur looked out the window, watching the new world move past him. And then, the car stopped on a long gravel road. The man got out of the car, and Arthur followed him.

Before them was a house. An old farmhouse, with a chimney from which smoke billowed. And around the house, stretched a large, green field, with trees and flowers. Arthur smelled a new scent, the scent of fresh earth, the scent of damp grass, the scent of freedom. The man sat on the porch of the house, and Arthur approached slowly, looking around. There were no cages. There were no noises from other dogs.

There was only silence, and the open scent of the land. Arthur took a deep breath, letting some of the weight he had carried in his soul melt away. He followed the man inside the house, and it was warm, smelling of wood and food. It wasn’t like the old house, but it wasn’t like the shelter either.

The first few days on the farm were still sad. Arthur wandered around, exploring the vast fields, sitting under the old trees, watching the man work. He still had the pain of loss, but he began to feel a certain calm. The man didn’t force him to do anything. He spoke to him gently, fed him regularly, and gave him the space he needed.
One afternoon, Arthur was lying in the field, watching the clouds pass by.

He felt the sun on his back, the scent of grass in his nose. Suddenly, he felt a gentle hand touch his head. It was the man. He sat down beside him, in silence. Arthur looked up and saw the man smiling at him. And for the first time in a long time, a tiny, very tiny, spark of light appeared in Arthur’s eyes. Not a spark of happiness, but a spark of recognition, of acceptance, of peace.

Weeks turned into months. Arthur began to heal. He started eating better, playing a little with the man, chasing birds in the field. Although there were still days when his sadness returned, the quiet days on the farm, the man’s patient presence, and the endless freedom of the fields, helped him heal slowly. He began to accompany the man on his long walks around the farm, helping to collect eggs, watching the sheep.
And then, one summer day, as the man was working in the garden, Arthur was lying beside him, enjoying the sun. He heard a car approaching. It was the mailman. Arthur lifted his head and watched him. But then, he saw someone else. A small boy, with blond hair, getting out of the car. He ran towards the man, shouting: “Grandpa! Grandpa!”

Arthur slowly stood up. The little boy saw him. He stopped, and his big, blue eyes fixed on Arthur. He approached slowly, cautiously, and extended his hand. Arthur took a deep breath. The familiar scent of childhood, the scent of games, the scent of unadulterated love, came to his nose.