“Come with me! I’ve got a yard with no dog at the moment. Youd make a good guardno hard feelings!” He hopped on his bike and pedalled toward the village. Along the way, old man George glanced back more than once but no one followed him.
She was what youd call “standoffish” the way some people are just distant. She was like that too.
Years ago, when old George went foraging for hazelnuts in the woods, he found a pupa gangly teenager of a dog. Only God knows how she ended up deep in the forest all alone.
She wandered silently among the trees, not even tied up. Just a scrawny, rain-soaked little thing George frowned and stepped closer.
Clumsy, not much to look at but still Then those brown eyes locked onto hisnot the eyes of a pup, but of something wise. George hesitated.
“Come with me! My yards missing a dog. Do a good job guarding, and I wont complain!”
He got on his bike and rode home. More than once, he checked over his shoulder but no one followed. Soon, he forgot all about the strange forest encounter.
Life went on. The farm kept him busythree pigs, a sow with ten piglets, a cow named Daisy, a dozen chickens, six ducks with ducklings, and a cat called Pluto
George rolled a cigarettenever did like the shop-bought onesthen pushed open the gate, ready to finally sit and relax on the bench by the house. Then he froze.
Those brown eyes were watching him. So intently so strangely, he didnt know what to do.
“Well? Coming in or not?” After a long pause, the pup backed away and vanished into the dark.
This went on for days. Every evening, those eyes judged him, searching for something familiar in his soul.
Then one night, as George sat smoking on the bench, *she* approached. Sniffed him then lay at his feet.
George wasnt the sentimental type. Livestock was just livestock to him. Couldnt count how many pigs, cows, and chickens hed raisedand slaughteredover the years.
Dogs were for guarding, cats for catching mice. Hed lost plenty of dogs toosome poisoned, others sick. Now the kennel stood empty.
Earlier that summer, Thunder had passedvet said it was ticks. No one mourned much. George was a stern man, not one for tears.
His wife, Margaret, was even tougher. The whole village still talked about the time she knocked out a calf with one punch for goofing off at the trough.
George took a drag and looked down at the pup at his feet. Those brown eyes stared back.
“Right then, beast. Settled on staying, have you? ListenIll feed you twice a day, whatevers going. Wont mistreat you. Kennels warm. Sometimes Ill let you off the chain at night for a few hours. Your job? Guard this yard. No strangers get past without a scare. If that suits you, come on then.”
And so began her new life. George named her *Stella*. Where hed heard such a pretty 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 huge, powerful dogone the whole village feared. Some even whispered she had wolf blood.
Beautiful, but odd. None of the usual dog habitsno tail-wagging, no licking hands.
When George, Margaret, or family came near, Stella just watched them with those wise eyes.
But strangers? Shed have torn them apart. Didnt even bark muchjust a growl, deep and terrifying. Only by day, though. So they moved her kennel to the garden, so folk wouldnt fear knocking.
At night, George sometimes unchained her with a warning:
“Three hours. Be back. The milkmaids are scared of youdont hassle anyone! Three hours!”
Never did. Maybe she had other business. But she was always back on time, and George respected that. Or maybe no, he didnt understand yet.
Puppies came regularly, as nature intended. Oddly, though folks feared Stella, her pups sold like hotcakes. People even came from other villages for them.
Then came an ordinary summer day. After breakfast, Stella dozed by her kennel, one eye on little Maisie playing in the sandpit under the big tree, the other on Granny Margaret tending her garden.
Stella knew Margaret tied Maisie to the tree while she worked. Just turned three, Maisie only visited on weekends. And every time, shed run straight to Stella, arms wide:
“Stewwa! Stewwa!”
Stellas heart swelled. But that day, she dozed off.
She woke to claws scraping her nose. Pluto sat before her, hissing:
“Do something! Maisies drowning!”
Stella looked. No Maisie in the sandpit, no Maisie on the swing.
“By the pond! Her dolls in the watershes going in! Hurry!”
Stella *barked*. Louder than ever. Leapt, strained, nearly yanked the chain loose.
Granny Margaret straightened up, scowled.
“Mad dog,” she muttered, and went back to her cabbages.
Then Stella *howled*. A wolfs cry, piercing the village. So loud, so terrible, it set hair on end.
And still she howled. Pain beyond words in that sound.
Finally, Margaret understood. She ran. Neighbors poured into the street.
They found Maisie just in time, pulled her from the pond. Chaos, ambulances, parents weeping with relief.
That evening, a delegation came to Stella: Maisies dad, Liam, his wife, and old George.
Liam knelt before her.
“Thank you. For saving my girl. Ill never forget. Come live with usbig house in town, a proper run. Best food, walks every day.”
Stella watched him with those brown eyes. Silent. Then she rested her head on his shoulderjust for a moment.
And walked back to George. Lay at his feet.
He stood frozen. Didnt know what to do with this tenderness.
And for once, the stern old man couldnt stop the tears.
