“Grandad, look!” Molly pressed her nose to the window. “A dog!”
Behind the front gate, a stray dog darted about. Black, muddy, its ribs showing beneath the dirty fur.
“That mongrel again,” muttered Arthur Thompson, pulling on his wellies. “Third day in a row. Got on, get out of here!”
He swung his stick. The dog jumped back, but didnt bolt. It sat, metres away, watching himjust watching.
“Dont chase her, Grandad!” Molly grabbed his sleeve. “She looks hungry… and she must be freezing!”
“Ive got enough on my plate as it is,” the old man grumbled, waving her off. “Shell bring in fleas and disease. Away with you!”
The dog tucked its tail and stepped back. But when Arthur went back inside, she returned
Molly had lived with her grandad for six months now, ever since her parents passed away in a car accident. Arthur had taken his granddaughter in, though hed never been particularly fond of children. Hed grown used to the quiet and his routines.
Now there was a little girl who cried at night and always asked, “Grandad, when are Mum and Dad coming back?”
How could he ever explain that they wouldnt? The old man just muttered and turned away. It was hard for both of thembut there was nowhere else to go.
After lunch, as Grandad nodded off in front of the telly, Molly slipped quietly into the back garden, a bowl of leftover stew in her hands.
“Come on, Poppy,” she whispered. “Thats your name, see? Isnt it lovely?”
The dog crawled closer, warily. She licked the bowl spotless, then lay down, resting her chin on her paws, eyes shimmering with gratitude.
“Youre good,” Molly stroked her gently. “So very good.”
From that day, Poppy stuck by the house. She kept watch at the gate, walked Molly to school, and waited loyally every afternoon. Whenever Arthur went out, hed shout for all to hear:
“You again! How much more of this?”
But Poppy knew by nowthis man barked, but didnt bite.
Next door, old Bernard Stevens watched the spectacle, shaking his head, and eventually said:
“You shouldnt chase her off, Arthur.”
“And whys that? Last thing I need is a dog on my hands!”
“Maybe,” Bernard replied, “the good Lord sent her for a reason.”
Arthur just scoffed
Another week passed. Poppy remained by the gatethrough drizzle and frost alike.
Molly continued to sneak her scraps, and Arthur pretended not to notice.
“Grandad, can Poppy come into the porch? Just the porchits warmer,” Molly begged at supper.
“No! Absolutely not!” the old man banged the table. “No animals in this house!”
“But she”
“No buts! Enough with your fussing!”
Molly sulked into silence. That night, Arthur couldnt sleep a wink. At dawn, he peeked out the window.
Poppy was curled tight in the snow. “Shell freeze to death soon,” Arthur thought with a pang he tried to ignore.
On Saturday, Molly went skating on the pond. Poppy, as ever, trotted after her. Molly laughed and spun on the ice; the dog waited at the bank, quietly watching.
“Watch what I can do!” Molly shouted, flying toward the ponds centre.
The ice chimed, then crackedMolly fell through.
Black, frigid water sucked her under. She flailed and screamed, but her voice quickly drowned in splashes.
Poppy froze for a heartbeatthen tore off back home.
Arthur was chopping wood when he heard frantic barking. He spunthere was the dog, racing around, whining, tugging desperately at his trouser leg, trying to pull him toward the lane.
“Whats got into you?” Arthur barked.
But Poppy wouldnt let up. She howled, dashed about, grabbed his coat. Her eyes shone with panic. Suddenly, Arthur understood.
“Molly!” he shouted, and ran after the dog.
Poppy bounded ahead, turning to check he was close, leading him to the pond.
Arthur saw a dark patch in the water, heard faint splashing.
“Hold on!” he shouted, grabbing a long stick. “I’m coming, love!”
He crawled across the cracking ice, pulled Molly by the hood, dragged her to shore. The dog darted about, barking encouragement.
Once Molly was out, she was pale blue. Arthur rubbed her with snow, blew on her face, whispered every prayer he knew.
“Grandad,” Molly finally whispered, “Poppy wheres Poppy?”
The dog sat close by. She shiveredcold or fear, Arthur couldn’t tell.
“Shes here,” he rasped. “Shes right here.”
Something changed after that. Arthur stopped barking at the dog, though he still wouldnt let her indoors.
“Grandad, why not?” Molly wouldnt let it drop. “She saved me!”
“Yes, she did. But we still cant keep her inside.”
“But why?”
“Because its my rule!” he snapped.
He was cross with himself, though he couldnt say why. Rules were rules, after all. And yet, something gnawed at his conscience.
Bernard popped by for tea, dunking his ginger nuts in silence.
“Heard about what happened?” he started gently.
“I heard,” Arthur muttered.
“Thats a good, clever dog, Arthur.”
“Maybe so.”
“You ought to look after her.”
Arthur shrugged. “Shes not out in the cold for no reason. Shes a dog, isnt she?”
Bernard shook his head. “Odd man, Arthur. That dog saved your granddaughter, and you Well, its not right to show so little thanks.”
“I don’t owe that mutt! We feed her, don’t kick her, that’s plenty!”
“Maybe, maybe not. But what about kindness? Being human?”
“Being humans all about people, not scruffy animals!”
Bernard just looked at him sadly. No point arguing.
February was especially brutal that yearone snowstorm after another, as if winter wanted to teach everyone a lesson.
Arthur barely kept up with clearing the walks. Every morning there’d be new drifts.
Still Poppy stayed, thin as a shadow, her coat matted, eyes dull, never leaving her post by the gate.
“Grandad,” Molly tugged his sleeve, “just look at her. Shes barely alive.”
“Its her choice to stay,” Arthur shrugged. “No one made her do it.”
“But she”
“Enough!” the old man snapped. “I’ve heard enough about that blasted dog!”
Molly pouted into silence. That evening, as Arthur read his paper, she said softly,
“Poppy wasnt about today.”
“Oh?” Arthur didnt look up.
“All day. Maybe shes ill?”
“Maybe shes left, at long last. Good riddance.”
“Grandad! How can you say that?”
“And why not? Shes not ours! We owe her nothing!”
“We do,” Molly whispered. “She saved me. And we didnt even give her a warm spot to sleep.”
“Theres no room! This isn’t a zoo!”
Choking back tears, Molly fled to her room. Arthur stayed at the table, the newspaper unread.
That night, the house shook in the gale. The wind roared down the chimney, rattling windows, snow battering the glass. Arthur tossed and turned, sleepless.
“Filthy weather,” he thoughtand then scolded himself, “Why should I care? Shes not my problem!” But deep down, he knew he did.
By morning, the storm had calmed. Arthur brewed his tea and peered out. The garden was buried; only the top of the bench was visible. By the gate
There was something black in the drift. “Probably just some rubbish,” Arthur lied to himself, though his heart fell.
He pulled on his coat and boots and waded out. Snow up to the knee. When he reached the gate, he stopped short.
Poppy lay there, motionless in the drift, snow almost covering herjust her ears and tail showing.
“Well, she’s had her day,” Arthur thought. Suddenly, something cracked inside him.
He bent down and brushed away the snow. The dog was barely breathingweak, shallow breaths, eyes closed.
“Oh, you silly thing,” he whispered. “Why didnt you go somewhere warm?”
Hearing his voice, Poppy trembled, lifted her head slightly, then slumped.
Arthur stood a moment, then muttered, “Oh, stuff it,” and gently scooped her up in his arms.
She was feather-lightskin and bones. But warm; still alive.
“Hang on,” he whispered, trudging back. “Hang on, you silly creature.”
He carried her into the porch, then through to the kitchen, laying her on an old blanket by the stove.
“Grandad?” Molly appeared in her pyjamas. “Whats happened?”
“She was freezing out there,” Arthur mumbled. “Lets see if we can warm her up.”
Molly dashed to Poppy’s side. “Is she… is she alive? Grandad, is she?”
“She is. Get her some warm milk, love.”
“Right away!” Molly flew to the hob.
Arthur crouched next to Poppy, gently stroking her head. “What kind of man am I,” he wondered, “that I nearly let her die? And still… she didnt leave. She trusted me, even now.”
Poppy opened her eyes, looking up at him, full of gratitude. Arthur felt a lump in his throat.
“Milks ready!” Molly set the bowl beside the dog.
Poppy slowly raised her head to drink, once, twice, then again. Grandad and granddaughter watched her, feeling as though something miraculous was unfolding.
By lunchtime, Poppy was sitting up. By evening, she padded, wobbly, around the kitchen. Arthur kept glancing over, muttering,
“This is only temporary, mind! Once youre fit, youre back outside!”
But Molly just grinned. Shed seen Grandad sneak Poppy scraps of roast, fuss over her blanket, stroke her when he thought nobody was watching.
“He wont send her away now,” she knew. “He just wont.”
The next morning, Arthur was up early. Poppy lay on her mat by the stove, watching him with hopeful eyes.
“Back to your old self, then?” he muttered as he dressed. “Thats better.”
The dog thumped her tail. Carefully, as if not sure yet if she belonged.
After breakfast, Arthur put on his coat and went outside. He walked along the fence to the old kennel by the shed. No dog had lived there for ten years.
“Molly!” he called indoors. “Come out here!”
The girl dashed outside, Poppy close behind, now confidently beside her.
“Look,” Arthur nodded at the doghouse. “Roofs got a hole, and the walls are rotten. Needs fixing.”
“But why, Grandad?” Molly asked, puzzled.
“Well, cant leave things unused, can I? Untidy, that is.”
He dragged over planks, grabbed hammer and nails, and set about mending the old roof, grumbling as he wentone moment about bent nails, next about warped wood.
Poppy watched intently, as if understanding that this effort was for her.
By midday, the kennel wore a new roof. Arthur tucked an old blanket inside, placed bowls for food and water.
“There you are,” he said, wiping his brow. “Done and dusted.”
“Grandad,” Molly whispered, “is that for Poppy?”
“Who else?” Arthur growled. “Shes not coming in the housebut she deserves a proper place. Even a dog needs dignity.”
Molly threw her arms round him. “Thank you, Grandad! Thank you!”
“Alright, alright, no tears. And rememberits only until we find her a proper home.”
But he knew, as Molly did, that no one would look, nor would they want her nowbut them.
Bernard wandered over at that moment, eyeing the new kennel, the dog, and Mollys glowing face. He smirked slyly:
“I told you, Arthurthe Lords hands work in mysterious ways.”
“Oh, stop it with your Lord,” Arthur muttered. “Its just… I couldnt leave her out there. Thats all.”
“Of course,” Bernard nodded, “Youve got a good heart, even if you do hide it away deep, old friend.”
Arthur almost protested, but thought better of it. He watched as Poppy sniffed her new home and Molly cuddled her gently, and he realisedthey were a family, odd perhaps, but together all the same.
“Well, Poppy,” Arthur murmured, “this is your home too, now.”
The dog gazed at him with soft, trusting eyes, then curled up next to her new kennelclose enough to watch the door, just in case her people needed her.
And Arthur understood, at last, that kindness grows quietly, sometimes in the coldest hearts, and that the family we make is often the one that saves us.
