My neighbor asked me to take care of her dog “just for a little while,” and a week later an ambulance and the police showed up at my building entrance.
At that time, I didn’t even look at her or the dog — I was rushing somewhere, exhausted, with only work on my mind. The door cracked open, and there stood Lia, with a tightly tied headscarf and a small ginger dog trembling, tail tucked tightly against his body.
“Alex, could you… just for a couple of days?” She hesitated, gripping the leash so tightly her knuckles turned white. “I have some tests at the clinic, and they don’t allow animals there. I’ll be back as soon as…”
I nodded absentmindedly, already looking at my phone.
“Sure, Lia, leave him here. A couple of days won’t be a problem.”
The dog, named Rico, carefully stepped into my apartment like he was afraid he’d be sent right back. Lia bent down, stroked his ear, and whispered, “Behave, okay?” Then she spoke aloud to me: “Please don’t scold him; he’s afraid of loud noises.”
Without thinking, I replied, “It’ll be fine,” and shut the door behind her.
Those first days, Rico followed me like a shadow. I grew annoyed — he tangled around my feet, whimpered when I left, didn’t eat until I sat down beside him. At night, he’d get up and wander the apartment, breathing heavily as if searching for someone. A few times I snapped at him:
“Stop whining. She’ll come back.”
But the days passed, and Lia didn’t call. On the fourth day, I dialed her number — “the subscriber is out of range.” I shrugged it off: maybe she was stuck at the hospital. Two more days went by, and when Rico stopped eating altogether and spent all his time lying near the front door, I started to get angry: “How convenient — dump the dog on the neighbor and disappear.”
That very evening, as I once again scolded Lia silently, an ambulance wailed into the courtyard. A police car followed closely behind. I looked out the window, more out of curiosity. A pair of paramedics, two police officers, and the entrance door opposite mine stood wide open. A cold knot tightened in my stomach.
Half an hour later, our elderly concierge, Inga, came inside pale as a wall. I ran into the hallway:
“What happened?”
Inga looked at me, her voice trembling:
“Lia… didn’t wake up. The neighbor upstairs raised the alarm when the smell started. Doctors say she’s been gone for about five days…”
I gripped a trash bag in my hands, trembling. Five days. So while I was lazily complaining about the dog, Lia was already lying there, alone, just a wall away. I leaned against the wall as a dull sound echoed in my head: “Tests at the clinic…”
That night, I pulled out the bag Lia had given me when she left: “Everything for Rico, just in case.” I’d tossed it aside without looking. Inside was a neat folder with documents — the dog’s passport, clinic certificates, tests. On the last page was a diagnosis, underlined in shaky handwriting: “Inoperable tumor. Palliative therapy recommended.” Beneath that, written even more trembling:
“If something happens to me… Please don’t send Rico to a shelter. He doesn’t handle loneliness well.”
Attached to the papers was an envelope. Inside, a small sum of money and a short note:
“Alex, I know we hardly talk, but you always said hello and once helped me carry a bag. It’s silly, but I have no one else. You have kind eyes. If I don’t return, please keep Rico with you or find him a home. He really is a good dog. Sorry for the boldness.”
I read the word “no one” about ten times. I remembered sharing the elevator with her a couple of times, how I was always in a hurry, how once I brushed off her attempt to start a conversation about the flowers in our yard: “No time, sorry.” Kind eyes… I felt so ashamed it twisted something deep in my stomach.
Rico lay by the door then, resting his head on the mat. I dropped down next to him. He looked up at me — tired, wary eyes, carrying that silent hope that breaks something solid inside.
“She… won’t come back,” I breathed out. My voice cracked betrayingly.
The dog whimpered softly, nudging my knee with his nose. For the first time, I stroked his head not in passing or irritation, but gently — like a living, feeling friend. His fur was warm and smelled faintly of medicine.
The next day, I approached the police investigating Lia’s apartment. They asked extensively who I was to her and why I had her dog. I showed them the note, documents, and money. One of them, a tall man with a tired face, returned the envelope quietly and said:
“Keep him. And… thank you for not turning him away.”
Only three people came to Lia’s funeral: me, Inga, and that same policeman who was required to be there. We didn’t bring Rico — dogs aren’t allowed in the cemetery. I left him at home but felt the whole way there like I was betraying them both.
On the way back, I caught myself looking around, half-expecting Lia to step out from a corner, adjust her headscarf, and quietly ask, “How is he? Is he bothering you much?” Then I’d have to admit I was angry at her dog for almost a week while she died alone.
At home, I opened the door — and Rico, hearing my steps, dashed toward it, wagging his tail joyfully, then froze as if sensing someone missing. He sniffed the air, took a few steps back, and sat down, frowning.
“She’s not coming back,” I repeated, firmer now. “But I… I’m here.”
I didn’t know if he understood the words, but he slowly came over and sat beside me, so close his side touched my leg. I felt something new stirring inside me — not pity, but a quiet resolve.
That evening, I took down the sign from his doghouse in the hallway — the one Lia had carefully stuck on: “Rico. Don’t scare.”
I screwed it onto the inside of the front door, right at eye level when you enter the apartment.
Now, every time I come home, I see that name and remember how easily we walk past someone else’s pain without looking up. I feed Rico, take long walks with him, talk nonsense he answers with a tilted head.
Sometimes, when he falls asleep with his head on my lap, I whisper:
“Lia, you were wrong about one thing. I didn’t have kind eyes — they were closed. But you made me open them.”
And every time in those moments, I feel as if somewhere up there, beyond our old building, another lonely woman finally doesn’t feel utterly alone — because her little ginger dog has finally found a home.
