**Diary Entry**
Moving into our new home in the Cotswolds, I felt a quiet certainty—this was the fresh start we all needed. James, my husband, and I were eager to give our son, Alfie, a better chapter after the bullying he’d endured at his old school.
The house had belonged to an elderly man, Geoffrey, who’d passed away not long ago. His daughter, a woman named Margaret, sold it to us, explaining it was too painful for her to keep. “Too many memories,” she said softly when we first viewed the property. “I want it to go to a family who’ll love it as much as we did.”
I squeezed her hand. “We’ll cherish it, Margaret. This will be our forever home.”
Yet from the very first morning, something odd happened. A husky appeared at our door—an old boy with silvered fur and ice-blue eyes that held a knowing gaze. He never barked, just sat patiently until we gave him food and water before ambling off.
“D’you reckon his owners forget to feed him, Mum?” Alfie asked one day as we picked up groceries—and extra dog treats—at the village shop.
“Maybe Geoffrey used to feed him,” I mused. “Could be part of his routine.”
Alfie nodded, tossing biscuits into the trolley. At first, we thought little of it. James and I had planned to get Alfie a dog eventually, once he’d settled at his new school.
But the husky returned every day, same time, same spot—as if *we* were the interlopers in *his* home.
Alfie adored him. They’d chase sticks in the garden or sit on the step, chatting like old mates. Watching them through the kitchen window, I couldn’t help but smile. It was exactly what Alfie needed.
Then, one morning, Alfie’s fingers brushed the dog’s collar. “Mum, there’s a name!”
I knelt beside him, pushing back the fur to reveal faded lettering: *Geoffrey Jr.*
My stomach flipped. Geoffrey—the previous owner. Was this his dog? Margaret had never mentioned one.
“D’you think he comes ‘round ‘cause it used to be his house?” Alfie asked, eyes wide.
I hesitated. “Maybe, love. Hard to say.”
That afternoon, Geoffrey Jr. grew restless, whining and pacing at the edge of the garden, his gaze fixed on the woods.
“Mum, I think he wants us to follow!” Alfie tugged on his coat.
I wavered. “Sweetheart, I’m not sure—”
“Please! We’ll text Dad so he knows where we are.”
Something in the dog’s urgency convinced me. So we followed.
He led us deep into the forest, pausing finally at a clearing—where a pregnant vixen lay trapped in a snare, barely breathing.
“Blimey,” I gasped, rushing to her. The wire had bitten into her leg; she trembled, too weak to struggle.
“We’ve got to help her!” Alfie begged.
Working quickly, I freed her, while Geoffrey Jr. hovered, whimpering as if sharing her pain.
James met us with a blanket, and we sped to the vet. The husky refused to leave her side.
The vixen survived surgery but awoke shrieking—until I entered. She quieted instantly, her dark eyes locking onto mine.
“Strange,” the vet murmured. “Like she knows you saved her.”
We brought her home, setting up a makeshift den in the shed. Geoffrey Jr.—now “GJ” to Alfie—stayed close, guarding her. Days later, she gave birth to four cubs, allowing only us near them.
“She trusts us,” Alfie whispered proudly.
When the cubs were strong enough, we built a proper den in the woods and set them free. Now, every weekend, Alfie, GJ, and I visit. The vixen still greets us, her kits peeking curiously from the undergrowth.
Funny, isn’t it? How a house, a dog, and a fox could weave such a tale. What would you have done?
