Friday

That night, when Runt returned from his foraging, the office was empty. It was Friday. His favourite night. The one night he could say what he wanted, do what he wanted, and make as much noise as he wanted, without fear of being yelled at, or teased, or beaten.

Runt wasn’t exactly sure where the boss went on a Friday, but it was something to do with the grog. At the end of each week Tyron would hitch up half a dozen hounds, the biggest and meanest they had, and head out on the fall of dusk. It was a ritual so dependable that Runt didn’t even question it anymore.

Runt wasn’t sure where he went, but he knew exactly how long the journey took. Tyron would return, each Saturday morning, just before sunrise. Guaranteed. It was something to do with the grog. He came back with bottles and bottles of it, stuffed in his backpack, clinking and rattling as he walked up the track with the red sun of dawn painting the horizon. The dogs, tails between their legs and heads down, would be covered in prickles and sticks.

On Friday nights Runt was the Captain of the kennels. It was his one secret pleasure, the thing that made the rest of the week bearable and, since the birth of his puppy, Runt’s Fridays became even more enjoyable.

“Let’s go, Stripes.” Runt sang, grabbing a handful of the dried dog food meant for the wolfhounds. Stripes nearly bowled him over as the kennel door opened. The pup had sprouted like a mushroom. He was now easily as tall as the biggest wolfhound and showed no sign of stopping.

The other dogs began barking furiously as Stripes left the kennel. Runt felt a familiar twinge of guilt each time this happened. The other dogs had not accepted him and, in fact, barely tolerated him. At best, they ignored Stripes. At worst, they sometimes tried to fight him. Tyron didn’t mind. He encouraged it.

“He’s got wolf blood inside, and they know it.” Tyron grunted, once.

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Runt held out a fist, palm down. Stripes obediently sat, then, as Runt motioned, he lay. With a small flick of his wrist, the pup rolled over onto its back, and then, at the signal, rolled over again. He looked up at Runt with dark, thoughtful eyes.

“Good boy,” Runt said, scratching the pup’s ears, “have a treat.”

Runt squeezed under the loose plank that led to the muck yards. A month ago, Stripes would have followed but he was much too big, now. Instead, he simply leapt over the fence that surrounded the kennels. Within moments they were out of the yards and racing across the clearing towards the city’s edge.

The “fence” that surrounded the city was a simple line of rough-cut stones. Even Runt had no trouble jumping over that. Still, his hair stood with a prickle of excitement every time they crossed.

Stripes loved fetching sticks, or sniffing out rabbit holes, or running rings around his master at full pace. The pup’s large feet tore at the ground as it sprinted and turned. Then, at the slightest hand signal from Runt, he would drop to his belly in a flash and wait, in complete silence.

Sometimes, when he was feeling brave, Runt would lead them further out, towards the farmlands, and hunt. The first time Stripes saw a sheep his eyes lit up, his ears pricked, and he barked and bolted straight for it. That night they both ran home in absolute terror after being yelled and chased by the farmer’s lad. Next time they were more careful. Runt trained Stripes to creep, pause, and drop. Not a mouse anymore, but a silent, stalking predator. They never actually killed a sheep, of course. It was a game of pretend. The goal was to see how close Runt and his pup could sneak before the sheep was alerted. It was not long before they grew very good at this game.

As they walked home together in the silent hours before dawn, a boy and his pup, Runt could feel himself growing bigger inside. He was, slowly but surely, discovering a world that stretched beyond the kennels. A world where he could laugh, and run, and play, without first checking over his shoulder. A world where he could speak his mind without fear of a flogging. A world where he didn’t need permission from an ungrateful master. Where he could simply be himself, ugly and proud.

Creeping over the muck yard fence, under the loose plank and into the kennels he thought to himself, “One day. One day I will need to duck under this gap.”

But he never did. Not even when, years later, he finally returned. By then the shack was rotted and crumbling, the kennels were empty, and the fear of the place was gone. But even in that unimagined, impossible future, so far from reach, still he passed under the gap.

Some things never change.