Showing up at the Murdoch’s in an absolute state, greetin’ up a storm, is certainly not an unfamiliar experience for me. Every scraped knee, broken heart, failed exam, you name it, ended up with me standing on their tattered doormat with my tail between my legs. I wish I could be as tough as my Nannie was said to be. She was known for it throughout the town of Lochbar, amongst other things. A woman who would stand up to anything that stood in her way, welding her feet to the ground, daring you to try and run her over. I must’ve inherited the lesser known McGregor trait of cowardice from a distant uncle, or a stray postman, perhaps. My mother was perplexed by me, when she knew me, but she was kind about it all.

“Your strength lies in your gaze,” she’d say, “and the straightness of your spine.” With that she’d pat my shoulders with her solid hands and nod decidedly at me. Her dark silken hair and strong stare are something that kept me sure that we were related. Though, my short stature and thoroughbred frame let the doubt creep in, on occasion.

It was the same doormat they had when I left, a watercolour beige with faded lettering that read ‘Come Back Another Day’. The hesitation was brief as I entered the Murdoch’s cottage, Dougie noted it but didn’t say a word. A fuss wasn’t made of my dishevelled hair and red eyes and I was promptly guided to the couch with a steaming plate of shepherd’s pie. Something tugged at my throat as I shovelled mouthfuls of marinated mince and peas into my mouth and silent tears dripped down and collected at my nose.

Dougie sits beside me, putting his arm around me and rubbing my shoulder. “Ach, it’s as’ a bit much now, isn’t it?” I hiccuped an ‘aye’ through chipmunk cheeks full of mashed potato. Everyone settles on the couch around me and begin to dive into lighthearted conversation, acting as a lullaby to my anxious thoughts. It’s something that I’d noticed being over in Canada so long. I’d always be calmed down by an old Scottish show, or calling one of my friends from Lochbar and listening to the familiar cadence of their voice. I didn’t have to slow down my speech, or feel like an odd commodity that’d be misunderstood all the time. I love my life in Canada but, the unmissable feeling of not quite fitting right is hard to reconcile with. Folks will never quite fully understand where you’re coming from.

Stolen story; please report.

So, as I listen to the boys natter on about one of the cows stepping on Andrew’s toe and him screeching like a banshee, my shoulders relax into Dougie’s embrace and I begin to fall asleep.

I awaken to the doorbell’s shrill ring and a blur of black and white fur, the Murdoch’s border collie, Noodle, speeds to the door whilst yapping excitedly. Dougie had been replaced with a pillow and a knitted blanket that pooled at my hips as I groggily laid eyes on my discarded plate of shepherd’s pie. Better get that off to the kitchen. The kitchen sink is cluttered, piled high with toppling towers of bowls and plates. Half-drunken coffee mugs are dotted around the edge, discarded in the midst of hurried mornings around the farm. It’s the kitchen sink that I mindlessly stare at as the front door opens to reveal who rung the doorbell and set off Noodle on a boisterous rampage.

Standing there wiping his scuffed, muddied boots on the doormat is Jamie Kirk, Lochbar’s local vet, and the last man I wanted to see for a million years. He tousles with his mess of auburn hair before widened eyes settle on me. He’s dwarfed slightly by the mountain men he stands beside, with a demeanour similar to a raccoon who’d rattle through your bins at three in the morning. Andrew, who’d welcomed the bin-scavenging panda into the house, stands sheepishly at the door before Noodle jumps up and knocks him over.