**Diary Entry**
They didnt hesitatejust set the box of kittens out on the pavement. Biscuit followed them without a sound and flatly refused to go back inside the flat. To him, that place meant nothing anymore.
The little dog, lovingly named Biscuit by his elderly owner, wasnt even a corgi. From a distance, he resembled onestocky legs, a cheerful wagging tailbut up close, he was a proper mutt: ginger fur, short legs, and boundless enthusiasm for anyone he met.
Biscuit was the friendliest dog in Manchester. In the park where his old master walked him, the regulars called him a “right menace”and for good reason. The moment his lead came off, hed bolt straight into the thick of it, desperate to make friends with every dog and human in sight. The other dog owners would turn on their heels when they spotted him, knowing theyd be stuck there half the morning if they didnt. Their own dogs never stood a chanceonce Biscuit had them, they werent going anywhere.
The old man often grew sad watching people shoo his beloved pet away. Sometimes hed try to intervene, but Biscuit seemed to understandhed tug at the mans trousers, pulling him aside, then climb into his lap, licking his hands and face until the world felt right again.
One afternoon, while the old man dozed on a bench in the park, Biscuit wandered off as usual. When he woke, he found not only Biscuit beside him but also a cata scruffy ginger tom, staring at him with sharp green eyes.
“Made a friend, have you?” he chuckled.
Biscuit wagged his tail furiously, licked the mans hand, then the catbefore plopping down beside them. The cat wasnt dafthe settled in and accepted the offerings: a bit of chicken and some dog biscuits. It was clear he hadnt been spoiled.
When the old man got up to leave, Biscuit planted himself firmly beside his new mate.
“Whats this now?” The man frowned.
Biscuit made it plainno cat, no moving. The old man sighed.
“Fine, you scruffy thing. Since hes chosen you, you might as well come home with us.”
Turned out, “Tom” was actually a she. A few months later, three tiny balls of fluff appeared in the flat. Biscuit was over the moonhe played with them, slept curled around them, while Whiskers (as the old man had named her) watched the street from the windowsill.
Life settled into a happy rhythm. The old man bought everything the little family needed and spent hours reading about cats and dogs online. The neighbours laughed at first, then softenedevery morning, theyd see him walking his odd little troupe: Biscuit, Whiskers, and the three kittens. The park was swapped for the gardencloser and safer. Soon, people stopped to chat, even sat with him.
Then, one sunny weekend, as laughter filled the garden, Biscuit let out a sharp whine. Everyone rushed over.
The old man sat on the bench, leaning slightly to one side. A faint smile lingered on his face, his eyes empty.
For days, neighbours fed the animals. Then the distant relatives arrived. They were the ones who put the box with Whiskers and the kittens out on the street. Biscuit followed. A home without his master meant nothing now.
The neighbours watched sadly, but none could take in all five. So there they stayedBiscuit, Whiskers, and the kittenshuddled by the bench.
Autumn rains came, cold and relentless. Whiskers shielded the little ones with her body, and Biscuit lay over them without hesitation, keeping them warm.
The first to crack was the grumpy old woman from the first floor. She stormed out in her dressing gown, scolding the world as she scooped up the kittens, clutched Whiskers, and snapped at Biscuit:
“Come on then, home with you!”
Biscuit trotted obediently behind, tail wagging.
Now the whole lot walked with heror her grandchildren did, dumped on her by their parents. And somehow, the old woman became the heart of the building. The other neighbours started bringing treatssausage rolls, biscuits, anything for the little ones. Shed grumble, but more often than not, shed wipe her eyes when no one was looking.
One day, the caretaker stopped by. He drank tea, chatted, then rose to leave.
“You forgot your envelope!” she called. “Its full of money!”
He paused. “Didnt forget anything. Thats for you. From everyone in the building. However much they could spare. Dont refuse.”
She froze. Then, surprising even herself, she kissed his cheek. The caretaker walked off, forgetting the lift, muttering to himself as he climbed the stairs.
“Well?” his wife asked later. “Did she take it?”
“Course she did,” he smiled. “Told her it was from the whole building.”
“Good,” his wife nodded. “Weve got enough. Shes got three grandkids to raise alone. Tell you whattake her some every month. Ill sort it with my mate at social servicesmake it look like benefits.”
The old woman, still standing outside, heard everything. She covered her mouth, crying silently. Then she went inside, leaned against the doorframe, and said to Biscuit:
“See, love? Sometimes even a lie can be a kindness.”
Biscuit pressed close, Whiskers nuzzled her hand. She stroked them softly and whispered:
“Thank you. Not for me. For the kids.”
Thats how it ended. Or didnt. She raised all three grandchildren. Married off two of them. Biscuit and Whiskers live with one now. Still loved.
Thats the story. The rest well, best leave it be. No need to spoil the mood.
