So, I was driving along in my car the other day, and my dog just wouldn’t stop staring at me and barking like mad. Then I realised—she wasn’t looking at me at all. She was staring at something else… something terrifying.
The morning started off normal enough. I fired up the engine, checked the mirrors, and glanced over at my golden retriever, Daisy, sitting shotgun. She usually loves car rides—just chills by the window or rests her head on my lap. Sweet, well-behaved, never any trouble.
“Alright, Daisy, errands today, yeah?” I grinned, pulling out of the driveway.
She wagged her tail, but instead of turning to the window like usual, she just… kept staring at me.
After about five minutes, her gaze got intense. Head slightly tilted, eyes locked onto mine like she was trying to tell me something.
“Oi, what’s up with you?” I chuckled. “Did I forget the indicator or something?”
Then she barked—not her usual little “woof,” but loud, insistent, like she was arguing with me.
“Easy, girl,” I said, keeping one eye on the road. “What’s got into you?”
But she didn’t stop. The barking got faster, louder, and I was starting to get proper annoyed. She’s never like this in the car. It was like she was wound up.
“You hungry or what?” I tried. “Need a nap?”
Nothing. Just this intense stare, leaning forward like she was about to jump. And something in her eyes—gave me proper chills.
“Alright, you’re freaking me out now,” I muttered, keeping one hand on the wheel while I reached over to stroke her head.
And that’s when I noticed. Her eyes weren’t fixed on me… they were fixed on something behind me. Something bad. I slammed on the brakes and—oh god, I saw it.
I carefully put my hand back on the wheel, but the dread didn’t leave. Daisy was still dead silent, unblinking, glancing between me and… something near the pedals.
“What, is there something there?” I squinted down, though I couldn’t see much from my seat.
Another loud bark. Then she looked straight ahead, like she was telling me to sort it out *now.* I’d never seen her so dead set on something.
“Alright, alright,” I muttered, pulling over onto the shoulder.
Got out, popped the bonnet—nothing obvious. Then I crouched down, checked underneath… and there it was. A slow, greasy drip onto the tarmac.
“Brake fluid,” I breathed.
Ran my fingers through it—yep, that sharp smell confirmed it. One of the hoses was split, leaking right out. One thought hit me: if I’d kept driving, especially on the motorway? Brakes could’ve gone completely.
I looked up at Daisy. She was leaning out the window now, watching me, calm but alert.
“Bloody hell, girl. You just saved our skins,” I said, scratching behind her ears.
And then it hit me. That barking, that stare—wasn’t her being daft. She was saving our lives.
