**Diary Entry**
Around four in the morning, a dog started barking somewhere behind the houses. By five, its yapping had grown louder. People began waking for work, irritated by the frantic noise. By half past five, the first residents trudged out, heading for their jobs.
The first to emerge were a man and a woman—likely husband and wife—who decided to investigate the commotion. Walking towards the row of garages, they spotted the dog. It was still barking, facing the houses, and behind it, a man lay motionless on the ground. The couple hurried forward, realising the dog was calling for help.
But as they neared, its barks turned aggressive. It was a German Shepherd, not the kind to let strangers close. The woman suggested calling an ambulance.
It arrived swiftly. Two paramedics stepped out, already warned about the dog. Yet, as they approached, the barking stopped. The Shepherd simply walked to its owner and sat beside him, silent now.
The paramedics moved cautiously. “Clever thing,” one muttered. “Let’s try. If she snaps, hit her with the spray.” Kneeling beside the man, one checked for a pulse—weak, but there. Mid-thirties, significant blood loss, abdominal wound. They worked quickly: bandages, injections, a stretcher. The dog watched, unmoving.
A small crowd had gathered but kept their distance.
Loading the man into the ambulance, the medics hesitated. They couldn’t take the dog. It stared at them; they stared back. Rules were rules. The ambulance pulled away, bumping along the uneven road. The Shepherd ran alongside, keeping pace.
The hospital wasn’t far. The dog lagged, then caught up, panting. At the barrier, the ambulance stopped. “It’s his dog,” the driver told the guard.
“And what am I supposed to do?” The guard shooed it. “Stay! Sit!”
Confused but obeying, the Shepherd sat just beyond the barrier, eyes fixed on the disappearing vehicle.
An hour passed. The dog settled near the fence, out of the way. The guards watched at first, expecting it to bolt inside. But it didn’t move.
“What do we do?” one asked.
“Nothing. Let’s see if it leaves.”
“It’s smart. Might wait forever.”
“Then we’ll figure it out later.”
—
Morning came. The dog hadn’t budged. At shift change, one guard sighed. “I’ll check on the man. And maybe bring him some food.”
“Don’t feed it here!”
“Right. Let it starve.”
The Shepherd’s ears twitched at their voices.
Forty minutes later, the guard returned. “Surgery went well. He’s in recovery.” He set down a plastic plate with scraps—a sausage, a bit of beef—and a bowl of water under a tree. “Come on, then.”
The dog stared, unmoving.
“Eat. Drink. Go on.”
It stood, hesitated, then finally slunk over, lapping at the water.
—
A week passed. The man—now in a ward—was healing. But he worried. He and the dog had been together since his military days. She was trained, sharp. Surely she wouldn’t just vanish.
Meanwhile, the Shepherd had shifted from the barrier to the trees, still watching. The guard fed her scraps. An idea struck him.
At the ward, he found the man—Alex Turner—propped up in bed. “Your dog’s outside. Been there the whole time.”
Alex’s face lit up. “Alma? She’s waiting?”
“Like a soldier.”
Alex wiped his hands on a tissue, then tucked it into a plastic bag. “Take this to her. She’ll understand.”
—
The guard carried the bag beyond the gates. Alma stood at once, sniffing the air. He laid it down, stepping back. She nosed the tissue, then carried it beneath a tree, settling with it curled between her paws.
**Epilogue**
She waited. And when Alex finally walked through those gates, the reunion was beyond words. They’d saved each other before. This time, she’d waited—and he’d come back.
