**Diary Entry**
“Come with me! My yards without a dog at the moment. Youll make a good guardwont complain!” I got on my bicycle and rode toward the village. Along the way, old Fred glanced back more than once or twice But no one followed him.
She was a “wild one,” that dog The kind folk call “untamed.” She was just like that
Years ago, when old Fred went into the woods to gather hazelnuts, he found a puphalf-grown. God only knows how the little thing ended up deep in the forest.
She just wandered silently among the trees. Not even tied up Just a small, rain-soaked scrap of fur Fred frowned and stepped closer.
Clumsy, not much to call handsome But still Then he saw those brown eyesnot a pups eyes, but the eyes of a wise beast. Fred hesitated.
“Come with me! My yards without a dog. Do your job, and Ill treat you fair.”
He mounted his bicycle and rode home. More than once, he looked back But no one followed. Soon, hed nearly forgotten the encounter.
Life went on. The farm was no small thing: three pigs, a sow with ten piglets, Daisy the cow, a dozen hens, six ducks with ducklings, and old Tom the cat
Fred rolled a cigarettenever cared for shop-bought onesand stepped outside to relax on the bench. Then he froze.
Those brown eyes watched him. Fixed. Intent. So strange, he didnt know what to do.
“Well? Coming in?” After a long pause, the pup backed away and vanished into the dark.
This went on for days. Every evening, those brown eyes studied him, weighing him, searching for kinship
Then one night, as Fred sat rolling his cigarette, she approached. Sniffed him. Then lay at his feet.
Fred wasnt a soft man. Livestock was livestockpigs, cows, chickens, all had their purpose. Hed lost count of how many had been butchered in his time.
Dogs guarded. Cats moused. And hed buried more than a few dogspoisoned, sick, or just old. The kennel stood empty now.
Last summer, Thunder had died. The vet said ticks. No one wept much. Fred was a stern man, sparing with tears.
His wife, Margaret, was harder still. The whole village remembered the time she punched a calf square between the eyesjust for butting her while she fetched water.
Fred took a drag and looked down at the pup. Those brown eyes watched him.
“Right then, beast. Staying, are you? Listen close. Youll be fed twice a daywhat God provides. No cruelty. Kennels warm. Ill let you off the chain some nights, a few hours. Guard the yard well. No strangers pass without fear. Agreed? Come on, then.”
And so her new life began. Fred named her Stella. Where hed heard such a fine name, no one knew. Now she had a warm kennel, a busy farm, and a chain.
Time passed, and the awkward pup grew into a magnificent beasthuge, powerful, feared by the village. Some swore she had wolf blood.
Beautiful, unusual. No tail-wagging, no licking hands. When Fred, Margaret, or family approached, Stella just watched with those knowing eyes.
Strangers, though? Shed tear them apart. Rarely barkedjust a deep, terrifying growl. By day, at least. So they moved her kennel to the garden, lest neighbors fear knocking.
But at night, Fred would sometimes unchain her with a warning:
“Three hours. Be back. The milkmaids wont cross you for the morning milking! Harm no one. Three hours!”
Never did. Maybe she had other business. But she was always waiting when he returned. He respected that. Or maybeno, he didnt understand yet.
Stella had litters, as nature intended. Oddly, though feared, her pups vanished like hot cakes. Buyers came from neighboring villages. Respect outweighed fearshe only attacked with cause.
One summer day, Stella dozed by her kennel, one eye on little Maisie playing in the sandbox under the old oak, the other on Granny Maggie tending her cabbages.
Stella knew Maggie tied Maisie to the treejust three years old, visiting weekends with her parents.
And every time, that tiny girl would run straight to Stella, arms wide.
“Teh-la! Teh-la!”
The dogs heart swelled. That wretched day, she watched Maisie, watched Maggie then dozed off.
She woke to claws scraping her nose. Tom the cat hissed in her face:
“Do something! Maisies drowning!”
Stella looked past the fence. No Maisienot in the sandbox, not on the swing. She locked eyes with Tom.
“The pond. Her bonnets in the water. Shes going after it! Move!”
Stella howled. Louder than ever in her life. Leaping, straining at the chain.
Granny Maggie straightened up, frowning.
“Lost its mind, that dog,” she muttered, then bent back to her cabbages.
So Stella howled againno dogs cry, but a wolfs. A sound to freeze blood.
Maggie knew then. She ran. Others rushed from their homes.
They found Maisie just in time, pulled her from the pond. The village eruptedambulance, parents, tears, relief.
That evening, a delegation came: Maisies father, William, his wife, and old Fred.
William knelt before Stella.
“Thank you. You saved my girl. Ill never forget. Come live with mea big house in town, a proper run. Good food, long walks.”
Stella watched him with those brown eyes. Silent. Then she laid her head on his shoulderjust a moment.
She turned, walked to Fred, and lay at his feet. He stood stiff, unsure how to react until traitorous tears rolled down his weathered cheeks.
Sometimes, loyalty isnt bought. Its earned in silence.
