Shaggy Angel
Emma edged backwards, never letting her gaze stray from the massive dog lounging right in the centre of the road.
“Good boy, easy good boy,” she murmured, barely above a whisper, careful not to make any sudden moves.
The dog was formidablebroad-framed, shrouded in a thick, tangled coat, with fur matted into hefty tufts here and there. Its eyesdark and watchfultraced her every move, twitching ears picking up every sound. Fear gripped Emmas insides so tightly she could feel her knees tremble; she fought hard to keep herself composed. Shed always been frightened of dogs even the tiniest spaniels dozing in their owners arms unsettled her. The fear had settled deep, ever since childhood.
She was only four the first time her parents took her to visit her grandmothers cottage in rural Somerset. Next door, an old farmer bred dogs. Emma was a wildly curious childeverything begged to be investigated and touched. So, naturally, she couldnt resist the plucky puppy that scampered onto their lawn. With the grownups distracted, she quietly scooped the pup up and started towards the cottage door. She hadnt made it far when a large dogits motherstepped directly in her path. The animal loomed above her, lips pulled back just enough to show sharp teeth. It didnt attack, only issued a low growl, but it was enough. The memory of that momentan icy, smothering terrorwas seared into her forever.
The years rolled by, yet the fear of dogs never left her. Now, facing a genuine giant blocking her way, Emma wasnt about to test her luck. Far better to give the animal a wide berth. Slowly, trying to appear calm, she turned away and began to walk in the opposite direction, glancing over her shoulder every few secondsthe dog was following her. Never closing the distance, trotting along a few paces behind her.
Clever thing, Emma muttered, eyeing her odd escort. Keeping his distance, somehow he knows Im scared. But why is he following me? Wheres his owner? The questions circled, but answers didnt come.
At last, her building was in sight. Emma hurried to the door, rushed up the steps, tapped her key card to the lock, and all but slammed the door behind her. She spun aroundthe dog sat there, planted on the pavement. He didnt move, only watched as the door gently closed, hiding her away from those steady, intelligent eyes.
Inside her flat, Emma placed her bag on the shelf, slipped off her shoes, and paused in the hallway, listening. Silence. Only the soft hum of London traffic drifting through double-glazed windows. She needed to be sure her canine shadow hadnt camped out by the door. Emma hurried into the sitting room and peered from the window.
There he was, a great shaggy shape beneath the orange glow of a streetlamp. The dog must have sensed her watching; he lifted his head a little, wagged his tail in a lazy arc, and finally meandered off. Relief washed through Emmatonight, at least, he had gone.
After that, it became a ritual. Every evening, as Emma returned from work, the dog would appearseemingly from nowhereand quietly trail her to her door. At first, he kept a good ten meters back, never once attempting to get closer. But each day the gap shortened: first five metres, then three, till one day he was so near she could hear the soft padding of his paws on the pavement.
Emmas stomach still twisted with anxiety at the sight, but the heart-pounding terror eased. These days, his movements only warranted a wary glance, not clenched fists and a held breath. Her childhood panic was still there, silent and tight-chested, but her mind increasingly insisted: this dog meant no harm. He was simply there.
She started to notice details she’d missed before. His slow, measured walk. Ears once pricked now relaxed. Those eyesstill sharp, but kind, not threatening.
Strolling home one dusky Saturday, she caught herself feeling almost pleased to have him near. The thought startled her, so she decided he should have a name. Not much deliberation was neededlarge and imposing, trailing her with that strange air of watchful mystery.
“Crowley,” she said softly to herself. The name seemed right.
Oddly, the dog responded at once. The next time she called, Crowley!, the dog turned his head, as if claiming the name with calm certainty. Emma even smileda shared understanding.
Emma worked as a manager in a modest Winchester marketing agency, her days whipped up in a flurry of meetings, phone calls, design tweaks, and client emails. By the end of the day, she felt wrung out, craving nothing more than to kick off her shoes, make a cup of tea, and disappear into a quiet evening. But now, with Crowley, her commute home had changed from a mindless trudge to something almost sacred. His silent solidarity brought a strange comfort. He never barked or demanded attentionjust walked beside her, as if knowing she needed gentle, undemanding company.
Emma sometimes slowed her steps, letting him draw closer. Every so oftenmustering courageshed steal a look at him. Crowley would meet her gaze, calm and steady, as if to say: trust can only be built, slowly, one brick at a time. With each shared glance, Emma felt her old fear melt a little more, replaced by something cautious, but almost warma feeling she wasnt ready to name.
One warm September evening, Emma stayed late at the office. The day had been chaos: an urgent client pitch, floods of emails, a flurry of last-minute changes to presentations. By the time she packed up, it was gone eight.
She rushed along her familiar route, mostly watching her phone. The air tasted of leaves and coming autumn; the trees whispered above. Emma, though, hardly noticedsomething felt off. Crowley wasnt there. Normally, his shaggy shape would appear from behind the corner as she turned onto her street. The absence was jarring, and she found herself walking faster.
Suppose somethings happened? she fretted. Maybe hes hurt? Or has his owner finally come for him? Or did he just get tired of waiting?
She brushed the thoughts aside, though they clung. Disappointed, Emma kept moving, heart drumming, eyes flicking from corner to shadow, hoping hed step into view.
Dusk thickened. Streetlights still unlit, the shadows stretched long beneath the trees. Emma hated this hourevery vague movement seemed suspicious, every strangers silhouette menacing. She realised, with a pang, how much Crowleys silent presence had shielded her. Without him, the hidden corners pressed close.
She was nearly at the crossroads when a voice oozed out from a dark alley:
“Evening, gorgeous. Fancy some company?”
So much for tempting fate, she thought grimly, chest tight, blood pounding. She walked faster, trying not to let fear show.
“Where you off to, love? Bit jumpy, arent ya?” he sneered, footsteps following.
She sped up, but seconds later, a bruising hand clamped hard around her forearm.
“Im talking to you,” he insisted, shoving close, the reek of alcohol heavy on his breath.
Emma struggled to pull away, panic rattling in her chest.
“Let go, or Ill scream!” Her voice trembled, but she tried to sound firm.
He only gripped her tighter.
“Go on, try it,” he mocked. “Theres no one about. Ill sort you out quick enough.”
Under the murky streetlight, Emma saw something glint. A blade, drawn and threateningly close. In a surge of cruel clarity, she cursed herself for lingering at work. If shed left on time
Her thoughts racedshould she fight, run, plead? If she jerked away, he might lash out with the knife. Reasoning was pointless; he was drunk, unpredictable. Fear strangled her, but Emma dug deep for composure.
Suddenly, through the hush, erupted a thunderous bark. The grip on her arm vanishedthe man spun around. In a blur, Crowley barreled forward, a mass of fur and muscle, jaws locked on the mans sleeve.
“Get off, you bloody mutt!” the man shrieked, thrashing, but Crowley just growled, holding him pinned.
The knife clattered to the ground. Emma kicked it into the bushes; it vanished in the undergrowth.
“Let him go, Crowley, but dont let him run,” Emma managed, voice quaking. “Im ringing the police. I bet Im not his first.”
Obedient, Crowley unclamped his jaws but wouldnt retreat. He sat a short distance away, muscles bunched, eyes never leaving the man. Each time the attacker tried to rise, Crowleys growl deepened, bloodied teeth flashing.
Moments later, blue lights flashed down the street. The police moved quicklyhandcuffs, stern warnings, a battered drunk bundled into the car. Only then did Crowley pace over to Emma. She sat on the curb in shock, knees hugged tight, unable to stand.
He pressed his great head gently onto her lap and sighed, warm and heavy. The softness in that gesture undid her restraint. Tears slipped down her cheeks; her hands, shaking, found their way into his tangled mane.
Thank you, she whispered, gripping him tight. Thank you for being here.
From that night, everything changed. Emma couldnt imagine life without Crowley. She took him in, gave him a proper home. He met her at the door each evening, followed her about her flat, always close by. He wasnt just a pethe was her silent bodyguard, an ever-present protector who always knew when she needed comfort most.
Even though Emma sometimes still started at a sudden noise, she no longer felt alone. She had someone who had provedwithout a second thoughtthat hed keep her safe.
*****
Crowleys first days settling into Emmas flat werent easy. He crept in, ears flat, sniffing warily at every unfamiliar smelldetergent, wood polish, foodsorting safe from strange. He paced the rooms, sniffing corners, pausing as though deciphering distant sounds from behind the walls. Emma didnt hurry him or push him to use the bed shed bought. She simply remained nearby, voice gentle and welcoming, giving him time.
Gradually, the space grew less daunting for Crowley. He chose favourite spotsfirst near the door, eventually by the sitting room window where he could watch the street and traffic and shifting dance of sunbeams and shadows. He liked that; it seemed to bring him peace.
Emma was determined to make him comfortable. She bought a soft bed, sturdy water bowls, a collection of toysa squeaky bone, a ball, a plush rabbit. At first Crowley ignored them all, but after a while he started to experiment: a poke here with a paw, an exploratory nibble there, sometimes just a thoughtful gaze as the ball rolled away across the floor.
With each passing day, Crowley gained confidence. He grew fond of lying in the sunshine by the window and waited faithfully each evening for Emmas return. When she climbed the stairs, hed cock his ears, and when the lock turned, hed jump up to greet her.
Most evenings, they strolled together in the nearby park. Emma sauntered down winding paths while Crowley meandered contentedly beside her, sniffing out intriguing clumps of grass or pausing to listen to a chorus of birds. These evening walks became their special time. Emma found, almost to her surprise, that she no longer feared dogsat least not her dog. Crowleys presence fortified her; he wasnt just a pethe was a silent guardian whose devotion warmed her heart.
Sometimes, exhausted after a gruelling day, Emma would collapse on the settee; Crowley would instantly curl up at her feet, placing his chin on her knee with a satisfied sigh. Moments like that, she realised just how much he meant to her.
One morning, as she was preparing for work, Emma noticed something was wrong. Crowley, usually alert and tail-wagging, barely roused himself from his bed. He shambled to his water bowl but didnt drink, then trundled away and sank back to the floor.
Worried, Emma crouched beside him, running her hand over his coat. His fur felt dull, his eyes tired, and he seemed listless.
Whats up, boy? she murmured anxiously, patting his head.
Crowley just sighed, laying his head heavily on his paws. Emma reached for her phone and dialled the vet.
The vet soon arrivedbrisk, professional, thorough. He examined Crowley, felt his belly, looked in his eyes, and nodded.
Hes got a mild infection, probably from scrounging food outdoors before he came to you. Nothing serious, but youll need to look after him for a bit.
What do I need to do? Emma asked, worry crackling in her voice.
Give him special food, these tablets twice daily, and make sure he drinks plenty of water. Hell be right as rain in a week.
Emma carefully followed every instruction. She served him small warm meals to be gentle on his stomach, hid medicine in little cubes of cheddar or ham, coaxed him to drink, kept the water bowl topped up. Now and then, after hed eaten, Crowley would lick her hand in gratitude and meet her gaze as if to say, Im all right, thanks.
Gradually, Crowley recovered. First his interest in toys returned, then his appetite, and soon he greeted Emma at the door each day tails-thumping, eyes bright, eager for a walk. Emmas heart soared to see his strength returnshe knew shed do whatever it took for him to feel safe and truly at home.
Life soon found a gentle pattern. Emma settled into her new roleowner, caretaker, friend. She researched healthy recipes, learning what foods dogs could and couldnt have, and eventually tried her hand at cooking for himsimple but nourishing meals. Mealtimes, walks, playher days now had a rhythm that comforted her, too.
One afternoon she decided it was time for Crowley to learn some manners. Emma booked him in for training at a local centre. To her delight, he was a naturalhe picked up sit, down, and come in no time, always eager for praise and a treat. The trainer remarked on his quick mind and willingness to please. Emma was proud, practising the new tricks each evening to make sure they stuck.
Every weekend, theyd wander back to the park so Crowley could run free, chase after balls, sniff out new friends. Emma would perch on a nearby bench, a book in her hand, but more often than not just watched her dog bounding about, tail high, exuding sheer happiness. He made friends easily: a canine greeting here, a playful game there. Emma would smile, a sense of peaceful belonging filling her heart.
One evening, things took a turn. Emma arrived home after a hard day, eager for tea and rest, but found a stranger leaning against her buildings wall.
He stood there, watching her approach.
Evening, he greeted, giving a cautious smile. Youre Emma, arent you?
Emma stopped a few metres away. Wariness tinged her voice. Yes. And you are?
Names Richard, he said. Im actually Crowleys owner.
Emma frozethe words sat in the air, heavy, awkward.
Youre youre his owner? she repeated. But why was he wandering the streets?
Richard sighed, running a hand through his hair.
Its a long story, he said at last. I work offshore, gone for half a year at a time. Left Crowley with a mate. Turns out he couldnt cope with himCrowleys a handful at the best of times. My mate couldnt manage, so he just put him out.
Richard fell silent, looking away.
When I got back, I searched everywhere. Posters, neighbours, all sortsnothing. Then, by chance, I saw him with you. He seemed so calm, so at home with you. I could hardly believe it.
Emma listened, mind whirring with thoughts she couldnt speak. How could someone just give up their dog? But instead of saying so, she simply asked, So do you want him back?
Richards gaze flickeredsadness, guilt, maybe relief.
I did, at first, he admitted. But honestlyhe looks happy with you. Youve taken care of him. It seems right, leaving him where he belongs. I wanted to make sure he was safe and let you know the truth.
Emma nodded, emotions tangling inside herrelief, gratitude, confusion. But beneath it all, something solid. Richard had made the right decision.
Thank you for telling me, she said quietly. Ill look after him.
Richard smiled, nodded once, and turned away down the road. Emma lingered for a moment, then headed up to her flat as Crowleys welcoming bark drifted down the stairwell. Her faithful, shaggy angelright where he belonged.
