As Mum and I were heading home from the market, I spotted him first.
He wasnt curled up under the bench like tired or stray dogs usually dono, he was perched right on the bus stop seat, sitting like a proper gentleman. Calm, composed, and oddly dignified. The winter sun made him squint as he watched the road, occasionally lifting his head to scan the passersby as if searching for someone specific. No frantic tail-wagging, no barking, no begging for attentionjust waiting. It was oddly human.
“Mum, look!” I tugged her sleeve. “A puppy!”
He was scrawny, all ears and awkward limbs, like a teenager still getting the hang of his own body. But it was his eyes that got metired, but not dull. There was something deep in them, the kind of thing you feel before you can put it into words.
Mum gave him a once-over and sighed. “Dont touch him. Probably flea-ridden. No jabs, either. And we cant take him on the bus. If we leave, hell wander off eventually.”
But the bus came and wentthen anotherand there he still sat, shifting from paw to paw, glancing around but never moving. As if he wasnt just waiting, but choosing. And when his eyes met mine, I swear I heard him say, *”You came for me, didnt you?”*
“Mum, *please*” I hadnt mastered the art of grown-up begging yet. I just stared, lip wobbling, heart collapsing. “Hell catch cold”
Mum chewed her lip. Looked up at the grey sky. Looked back at the pup. Then exhaled hard.
“If no ones taken him by tonight, well bring him home. But hes *your* responsibility. If Dad kicks off, *you* explain.”
I nodded like it was a life-or-death negotiation. Rushed back, unwrapped my scarf, and bundled him up like a burrito. He didnt fuss. Just let out a tiny sighchildlikeand buried his nose in my coat.
At home, he ate quietly, almost desperately, as if every crumb was his last chance. Then he curled up on an old jumper and *slept*really slept, like hed finally stopped running.
“What do we call our brave explorer?” Mum asked, setting aside the empty bowl.
I thought hard. Then it hit me.
“Todays April twelfth.”
“So?”
“Churchill,” I said.
Mum blinked. “After the war?”
“After the *first* war. *His* first war. And he *is* a hero.”
Mum smirked, but the name stuck. Churchill Churchill stayed.
The early days werent easy. The cat hissed from behind the sofa, Gran complained about “wet dog smell,” and Dadon a business tripyelled down the phone about allergies and madness. I nodded through it all and didnt budge.
Churchill was perfect. Barely barked, never chewed shoes, didnt demand attention. He just *existed* beside me. Calmly. Like knowing we were there was enough.
He grew. His ears got even bigger, his legs stretched like spaghetti, and he stayed adorably gawky. Hed wait by the door when I came homeno jumping, no barkingjust looking up as if to ask, *”How was your day?”*
He knew my moods. If I was ill, hed press against me like a hot-water bottle. If I cried, hed nudge his ball into my lap*”Dont mope, play.”* If I argued with someone, hed sit close and rest his head on my knee. Just *there.*
That winter was brutal. Blizzards, ice thick enough to skate oneveryone did, kids and adults alike. Churchill and I went almost daily. Id toss snowballs; hed skid after them, paws slipping comically.
That day, I went alone. My mate was ill, Mum was late. Snow fell in fat flakes, muffling everything but the crunch of my boots. Churchill darted ahead, zigzagging through bushes.
I stepped onto the river. The ice looked solid, smoothjust a few cracks.
One step. Two. Then*crack.*
No time to scream.
The world collapsed under me. Water swallowed me whole. Cold punched my ribs. I flailed, panickedno grip, no air, just splintering ice.
Then*a yank.*
My coat sleeve. Churchill.
His teeth clamped down, pulling with everything he had. He slipped, scrabbled, but *wouldnt let go.* Barking, whining, *fighting.*
I dont remember how we got out. Just the blood on my sleeves, my chattering teethand him, sodden and shivering, pressing against me like he feared Id vanish.
The ambulance came. I went to hospital; he went to the vet. Mild hypothermia for me. Cuts, exhaustion, infection for him.
We saved each other.
A week later, home again, Churchill met me at the door. Nosed my stomachthen flopped beside me. No words needed.
After that, he wasnt just a dog. He was my universe. My Churchill.
We moved house a year later. New flat, new door, new sign: *”Warning: Hero lives here.”*
He wont let me near the river now. Winter or summer, he blocks my path, stares me downnot angry, just *certain.*
Sometimes, he sits on the balcony, gazing at the sky for ages. Like hes searching.
“Counting stars, Churchill?” I tease.
He doesnt answer. Just rests his head on my foot.
And its warm.
So warm.
Always.
If youve got a Churchill of your owntell us below. And stick aroundplenty more heart-warmers to come.
