**The Scruffy Saviour**
The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels and the blur of trees outside the window lulled Oliver into a doze, his forehead pressed against the glass, fingers gripping a large pink dollbox—a gift for his six-year-old daughter. Just over an hour left: his business trip was nearly over, and he couldn’t wait to be home with his family.
His dream was oddly vivid—his cosy house, his beloved Emily, little Daisy, his sunshine. Even the scruffy mutt, Scruff, made an appearance—the very dog he’d never liked. Small, useless, skittish. But Daisy had begged, hauling him home as a puppy, and Oliver, melting under her pleading eyes, had caved.
The train jolted to a sudden stop. Oliver blinked awake. Across from him sat a stranger.
“Afternoon. Do we know each other?” he asked, baffled.
“No, sorry. Just couldn’t help noticing—grown man with a doll box on his lap. Adorable, really.”
“It’s for my daughter. I always bring something back. Miss her like mad.”
“Lucky family you’ve got there…”
“No,” he grinned. “I’m the lucky one.”
He strode briskly through the outskirts of town, past rows of terraced houses, towards his own cottage. The gate was open. Maybe Emily and Daisy had come out to meet him. But his wife stood there, pale and shaken.
“Oliver! Daisy’s gone!”
The words hit like a punch. His smile vanished. He dropped his bag by the fence. The doll stayed clutched in his hand.
Emily gasped out the story—she’d heard Daisy playing in the sandpit with Scruff, popped inside for a minute, came back… silence. No Daisy. She’d searched the garden, the street, the house. Nothing.
“Gate was locked?”
“Daisy could’ve opened it… But she knows not to…”
They tore through the neighbourhood, shouting her name. Knocked on doors. An hour in, they called the police. Search teams.
By the sandpit, only a little bucket remained. Scruff was missing too.
“Maybe he’s with her,” a constable mused.
Oliver refused doubt. Daisy was alive. He’d find her. Didn’t matter how. Shivering in his T-shirt despite the chill, he muttered, “If Daisy’s cold, I won’t warm up either.”
Torch in hand, flanked by volunteers, he combed the woods. Paused. Shouted. No reply. He remembered fetching Daisy from nursery once, her tiny voice: “Dad, can we keep the puppy?”—pointing at a shivering scrap.
Scruff had become her shadow. Snuggled her through fevers. Moped when she was gone. More than a dog. Almost a guardian angel.
Then—a glimpse in the dark. A pink sunhat. A tiny sandal.
“That’s hers!” Oliver croaked.
The volunteers stayed quiet. Their looks said enough. But Oliver shoved the dread away. “She’s alive. I’ll find her.”
Hours later, shouts split the silence. A ravine. At the bottom—Daisy. Pale, scratched, but breathing.
“Daddy… thirsty,” she whispered as he scooped her up.
“Almost home, love. You’re safe.”
Only once they’d climbed out did she stir. “Scruff’s down there… He couldn’t get up…”
They found the dog. Wounded, leg broken. He’d dragged himself after them, leading rescuers back.
Next morning, the vet eyed Scruff. “Put him down?”
“No. Fix him. He saved my girl.”
Two weeks later, Daisy dashed about the garden. Beside her, Scruff—limping slightly—barked joyfully. In every wag of that scruffy tail was more devotion than words could hold.
Turns out, he wasn’t just useful. He was a hero. A proper one.
