The dog had the strangest tick – he would relentlessly swirl around his tail. Loop on loop on loop.
His favourite toy – a round rubber ring.
His favourite person – a grandfather. His owner. That grandfather who never got to be.
The dog was spoiled. Out for walks at 4 in the morning. Up 5 flights of stairs, down them all. He was fit.
One day, his owner – the Grandfather – fell ill. The winter – dark, the nights white with the shine of the snow. The wind, harsh. This is how North of Poland feels. As if the Snow Queen was born there.
In what felt like the blink of an eye, both the dog’s owner and his wife passed. From one world to the other. Better. More serene. The world with no pain. The grandchild that was to be – still in her mother’s womb.
The dog was left behind. He was my husband’s family dog. 10,000 miles, a pregnancy and the uncertainty of moving house separated us from him. We had to let go. Would we have done the same now, some 10 years later? I will never know. I dare not know.
50. Is the number of posters I stuck on trees, on lamp posts, on dilapidated shops.
‘ARNIE IS 8 YEARS OLD. YOU MIGHT KNOW HIM AS MIREK’S DOG. LOOKING FOR NEW OWNER.’
We begged and bargained. Hoped. Believed someone would adopt him.
On the last day, Pawel (my husband) took it upon himself to take Arnie to the dog shelter. Its doors were shut. Pawel’s heart, heavy. Frozen. The winter chill still in the air.
And here comes the end. It is not made up, it does not belong in a fairy tale. It is simply the end of Arnie’s story.
Pawel’s phone rang, and there and then, by the immovable gates of the dog shelter, his friend announced that he had found an owner for the dog. Arnie did leave us. He now consoles a widow whose very old dog passed away the same day as Pawel’s dad.
