The Faithful Hound and the Empty Coach

“So, my boy, inform me, what’s the city like?” his mother hurried around the hearth, incessantly placing warm pastries onto the dish.

Nikita smiled, gazing at her silver head. Always consistent – perpetually active, perpetually concerned. Merely more lines had formed, and her spine had curved a little further.

“It’s progressing slowly, mother. We finally completed the refurbishment.”

“And what was the outcome?” she settled beside him, drying her hands upon her apron.

“My Sveta managed splendidly. She selected the wall coverings personally, even adhered them. I merely assisted with the upper surfaces and replaced the electrical conduits.”

“Ah, she’s beneficial for you…”

“Good,” Nikita concurred with a nod. “However, she becomes extremely fatigued. Her school involves a substantial workload, and subsequently, there was this refurbishment.”

Externally, the adjacent dwelling’s bovine lowed, the scent of newly severed turf and mother’s pastries permeated the air. Everything resembled his youth – solely he himself had now altered. Metropolitan.

“Mother, allow me to mend the barrier while I’m present. It’s completely crooked.”

“Oh, my boy, it amounts to naught.”

“No, it is required. Furthermore, I’ll mend the covering on the barn’s top – it’s dripping, is it not?”

“It drips,” his mother exhaled with a sigh. “Never found the occasion to summon anyone.”

He occupied himself with tasks around the dwelling throughout the day. He repaired the barrier, mended the covering, even removed weeds from the planted areas – his mother continually bemoaned that it was needless, that she could manage. Yet how could she manage? She was utterly solitary.

By evening, having cleansed himself from his labor, he proceeded to the shop for bread. On the shop’s veranda, the village’s elder women were conversing idly:

“That hound is positioned at the halt once more.”

“For how many days currently?”

“Number them, four weeks. Beginning from when its possessor relocated to the metropolis.”

The sizable russet hound was indeed seated at the coach terminus. He would elevate his head upon hearing an engine’s noise, gaze intently into the panes of the arriving conveyance, and depress his head once it departed.

The inhabitants were accustomed to this sight:

“Ah, that is Ryjik awaiting his possessor.”

“Unfortunate creature, fails to grasp that none shall come back.”

“Indeed, such canine faithfulness.”

Nikita commenced observing him. Something regarding this hound affected his spirit – perhaps the optimistic expression, perhaps the tenacious faithfulness with which he awaited.

“To whom does this hound belong?” he inquired one time of Baba Klava, an elder resident.

“That pertains to Vitka!” the elder female cried out, raising her hands. “He relocated to the metropolis to dwell with his offspring. He abandoned the hound here.” – she gestured with her hand. – “Presently it merely awaits, the simpleton.”

Something fractured internally. Nikita recalled this Vitka distinctly… The account proceeds in the appended notes.That night, Nikita couldn’t sleep. The image of Ryjik, patiently awaiting his master who wouldn’t return, gnawed at him. He remembered Vitka vividly – a gruff, unkind man, often seen kicking Ryjik when the dog got underfoot. Vitka had always treated the dog more like a nuisance than a companion. The thought of Ryjik pining for someone who had shown him so little affection was unbearable.

The next morning, Nikita found Ryjik at the coach stop, his tail giving a hopeful thump against the dusty ground as another coach pulled in. Nikita knelt beside him. Ryjik looked up, his brown eyes full of longing. Nikita stroked his russet fur, feeling the dog’s ribs beneath his hand.

“He’s not coming back, Ryjik,” Nikita murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Ryjik whined softly, burying his head in Nikita’s lap. Nikita felt a pang of pity so intense it almost brought him to his knees. He spent the morning with Ryjik, feeding him scraps from his mother’s kitchen and taking him for a walk in the fields. Ryjik, tentatively at first, seemed to enjoy the company. He chased butterflies, barked at squirrels, and even licked Nikita’s hand.

As the days passed, Nikita visited Ryjik every day. He learned Ryjik loved belly rubs, despised cats, and had a particular fondness for chewing on old boots. Slowly, trust began to bloom between them. Ryjik started following Nikita around, his tail wagging with increasing enthusiasm. The hopeful, expectant look at the coach stop gradually faded, replaced by a quieter contentment when he was with Nikita.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Nikita sat with Ryjik on his mother’s porch. Ryjik leaned against him, his warm fur a comforting presence.

“Mother,” Nikita said, turning to his mother, who was knitting nearby. “I’m thinking of taking Ryjik back to the city with me.”

His mother looked up, her silver hair glinting in the twilight. She smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. “I thought you might. He needs someone, and you need him, it seems.”

Nikita swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat. He reached down and scratched Ryjik behind the ears. “He deserves a good home, a family who will love him.”

The next day, Nikita packed his bags, Ryjik watching him with curious eyes. As they stood by the coach, ready to depart, Nikita looked back at his mother, her face etched with a mix of sadness and happiness.

“Don’t worry, Mother,” he said, giving her a hug. “I’ll visit often. And Ryjik will keep me company in the city.”

As the coach pulled away, Nikita looked out the window, watching the familiar landscape fade into the distance. Ryjik sat beside him, his head resting on Nikita’s lap. He wasn’t looking at the road, wasn’t looking for a familiar face in the crowd. He was looking at Nikita, his eyes full of trust and affection.

In the metropolis, Ryjik thrived. He became a regular fixture at Sveta’s school, charming the students and faculty alike. He went on long walks in the park with Nikita, chasing squirrels and making new friends. He even learned to tolerate, though not necessarily love, the neighbor’s cat.

One afternoon, Nikita received a phone call from Baba Klava. “Vitka has returned,” she announced, her voice crackling over the line. “He’s asking about the dog. Says he wants him back.”

Nikita felt a surge of anger. After all this time, after abandoning Ryjik, Vitka wanted him back?

“Tell him,” Nikita said, his voice firm, “that Ryjik has found his home. And he’s not going anywhere.”

He hung up the phone and looked down at Ryjik, who was lying at his feet, his tail thumping softly against the floor. Nikita knew he had made the right decision. Ryjik had found his forever home, and Nikita had found a loyal companion who would always be there, no matter what. The canine had been saluting the wrong coach for too long. Now, he had finally found the right one.