When we first stepped into our new home, I sensed it was the beginning of something special. It was a fresh start for us all—my husband, Oliver, and I were eager to give our son, William, a brighter future after the torment he’d faced at his old school. The move felt like a chance to leave the past behind.
The house had once belonged to an elderly gentleman named Arthur, who’d passed not long before. His daughter, a woman named Margaret, had sold it to us, her voice thick with sorrow as she explained she couldn’t bear to keep it. She hadn’t stepped inside since her father’s death.
“Too many memories linger here,” she’d told me when we first toured the place. “I want it to go to a family who’ll cherish it as much as we did.”
“I understand completely,” I’d reassured her. “This will be our home for years to come.”
We settled in eagerly, but from the very first morning, something peculiar happened. A golden retriever, his coat touched with silver and eyes warm as honey, appeared at our doorstep. He never barked or pawed at the door—just sat patiently, as if waiting. Naturally, we fed him, assuming he belonged to a neighbour. Once he’d eaten, he’d amble away, as though it were part of his daily ritual.
“Do you think his owners forget to feed him, Mum?” William asked one day as we picked up groceries, adding a tin of dog food to our basket.
“Hard to say, love,” I replied. “Perhaps Arthur used to feed him, and he’s just carrying on the habit.”
William nodded, tossing in a packet of biscuits.
At first, we thought little of it. Oliver and I had planned to get William a dog eventually, but we’d wanted him to settle into his new school first.
Yet the retriever returned the next day, and the next—always at the same hour, always waiting calmly by the porch. It was as though he didn’t see himself as a visitor. This was his home, and we were the newcomers. Strange, but we brushed it off.
William adored him. I’d watch from the kitchen window as they played in the garden, my son laughing as the dog bounded after sticks or sat beside him on the steps, listening intently to William’s chatter as if they’d been friends forever. It was exactly what William needed after the cruelty he’d endured.
One morning, as William stroked the dog’s neck, his fingers brushed against the collar.
“Mum, there’s a name here!” he called.
I knelt beside them, pushing aside the fur to reveal the faded letters on the worn leather.
Arthur.
A shiver ran through me.
Was it mere chance? Arthur—the name of the man who’d lived here before us. Could this be his dog? Margaret had never mentioned one.
“D’you think he keeps coming back because this was his home?” William asked, eyes wide.
I shrugged, uneasy. “Perhaps, sweetheart. Though it’s hard to know for certain.”
Yet it did feel as though the retriever belonged here, as if we were merely passing through. Later that day, after eating, he grew restless—whining softly, pacing near the edge of the garden, his gaze fixed on the woods beyond.
“Mum, I think he wants us to follow!” William said, already pulling on his coat.
I hesitated. “Darling, I’m not sure that’s wise…”
“Please!” he pleaded. “We’ll take our mobiles, and I’ll text Dad so he knows where we are. Come on!”
Reluctantly, I agreed. There was something in the dog’s urgency, a silent plea that tugged at me. So we followed.
Arthur led the way, glancing back now and then to ensure we kept pace. The woods were hushed, the only sounds our footsteps on the crisp leaves.
“Still certain about this?” I asked William.
“Absolutely!” he said. “Dad knows where we are. It’ll be fine.”
We walked deeper than I’d ever ventured, the trees thickening around us. Just as I was about to suggest turning back, Arthur halted at a small clearing.
There, tangled in a hunter’s snare, lay a pregnant vixen—her breathing shallow, her fur streaked with mud.
“Good heavens,” I whispered, rushing forward.
The trap had bitten into her leg, and she trembled weakly.
“Mum, we have to help her!” William cried.
“I know,” I murmured, working quickly to pry the snare loose. Arthur whined softly beside us, his ears pressed back as though he, too, felt her pain.
At last, the vixen was free, but she lay motionless, her sides heaving.
“We must get her to a vet, Will,” I said, dialling Oliver.
When he arrived, we bundled the fox into a blanket and sped to the nearest clinic. Arthur insisted on coming.
The vet said she needed surgery. We waited anxiously, William sitting quietly with Arthur, his small hand buried in the dog’s golden fur.
“Will she be all right, Mum?” he whispered.
“I hope so, love,” I said, squeezing his shoulder. “She’s strong. We’ve done all we can.”
The operation succeeded, but when the vixen woke, she howled—a sound that pierced the sterile air. The vet couldn’t soothe her, nor could Oliver. But when I entered, she fell silent, her dark eyes meeting mine before she let out a soft whimper.
“It’s as if she knows you saved her,” the vet remarked.
We brought her home two days later, setting up a quiet corner in the shed where she could recover. Arthur—now called Archie by William—refused to leave her side.
Soon after, she gave birth to four tiny cubs. It was the most wondrous thing I’d ever witnessed. And she allowed us near them.
“She only trusts us with her babies,” William told me one morning as we checked on them.
I smiled. “And Archie too. He’s become part of the family.”
When the cubs were strong enough, we built a safe den deep in the woods and watched as the vixen led them home.
Now, every weekend, William, Archie, and I visit them. The vixen always emerges to greet us, her cubs trailing behind, their bright eyes filled with curiosity.
What would you have done?
