By the time Emily Carter turned thirty, her love life was a tangled ledger: a blazing affair with James, a dreary saga with Edward, and three fleeting, equally pointless flings with Simon, Tom and Ben. There was even a footnote about a brief encounter with John more a gossip column than a chapter. She couldnt bring herself to reread it.
One night Emily closed the notebook of her past and whispered, It isnt fate. She exhaled, walked away from the world of stories, enrolled in a knitting course, and headed for the animal refuge on the outskirts of Manchester.
Do you know which one? the volunteer asked, eyes flicking over the rows of cages. Just look, youll see if its yours.
Emily paced the corridors, heart steady. Is anyone left? she asked. Whats behind that box?
Thats our Molly, the attendant said, but you wont take her anyway. Molly, come heredont be scared! From behind a crate emerged Molly, a graybrown mutt with black patches, a hunch, a feral snout, and a look that could chill a summer night. She wagged her tail as best a tailless dog could.
Mollys sweet, but you see itshes been taken before, returned two days later, told it was disgraceful to be out on the street, that no one wants her. Shes a miserable little thing.
Emily felt a pang. Just like me, she murmured, and answered, Come on, Molly, lets run away together! Do we owe anything?
A neighbour shrieked from the doorway, Whos that? From the shelter? Did they never have any human dogs here?
A boy from the flat above piped up, Auntie Dasha, is she laughing? I saw it in a filmdogs laugh at night! Mum, lets get a hyena too!
Life settled into a strange rhythm. In the mornings Emily walked Molly to the train, then to her office; evenings stretched into long, quiet strolls. The refuges warnings proved wrongMolly, fierce at first, turned out to be oddly gentle and wellmannered, though she never forgave strangers, growling and shielding Emily from any perceived threat. When a lanky man named John tried to snatch her, his trousers ripped and his foot nearly gave way.
Stupid girl, Emily! John howled, teeth flashing, and your dog is a foolboth of you are mad!
At the knitting studio, the instructor, Ms. Hawthorne, praised the class. Youve learned a lot. In a month I expect a finished pieceanything you like. If youre pressed for time, make a tiny dress for a doll. In the final session well all judge each other’s work. And whoever youre knitting for, let them show it off.
Emily first tried to treat herself to something nice, but the result was a hideous mess. She then decided to crochet a sweater for Molly as the autumn chill set in.
Alright, Ms. Hawthorne said, averting her gaze from the mutt, I see youve put effort into this.
Molly, now sporting a pink cardigan, became the talk of the neighbourhood; passersby stopped, stared, a frail old lady even crossed herself. Emily didnt mind the attentionMolly stayed warm, and the violet sweater clung to her like a second skin.
One evening, after buying dog food, Emily tied Mollys leash to the front gate. As she turned back, a man lingered, eyeing the dog.
Excuse me, what breed is this? he asked.
Its just a dog! Emily snapped, bark louder than her words. If you dont like it, look elsewhere! You care only about looks, not the soul of a creaturewhether human or animal.
Youre complaining about looks? the man chuckled, extending a hand. I actually like her. Fancy being friends, girl?
Emily warned, Careful! She bitesshe doesnt like strangers! But instead of snapping, Molly nudged his hand with her head and gave a soft growl.
Good dog, the man said, smiling. Looks like well both be getting along with the owner.
Literature never truly left Emily. The fifth year rolled on, and she was still scribbling the fifth volume of her own story, each chapter a stitch in the tapestry of her life.
