Moving into our new house felt like the start of something special. It was a fresh beginning for all of us—me, my husband Oliver, and our son, Alfie. After Alfie had a rough time with bullies at his old school, we were all desperate for a clean slate.
The house had belonged to an elderly bloke named Arthur, who’d passed away not long before. His daughter, a woman named Gemma in her forties, sold it to us, saying it was too painful to keep. She hadn’t stepped foot inside since her dad died.
“Too many memories, you know?” she told me when we first viewed the place.
“I just want it to go to a family who’ll love it like we did.”
“I get it, Gemma,” I said, squeezing her hand. “This’ll be our forever home.”
We were chuffed to settle in, but from day one, something odd happened. Every morning, this old husky would turn up at our door. Grey round the muzzle, ice-blue eyes that seemed to stare right into you.
He never barked or made a fuss—just sat there, patient as anything. Naturally, we fed him, assuming he belonged to a neighbour. After eating, he’d trot off like clockwork.
“D’you reckon his owners don’t feed him enough, Mum?” Alfie asked one day while we were at Tesco, picking up our weekly shop—and extra dog food.
“Dunno, love,” I said. “Maybe the old chap who lived here before used to feed him?”
“Yeah, s’pose so,” Alfie said, tossing some dog biscuits into the trolley.
At first, we didn’t think much of it. Ollie and I had talked about getting Alfie a dog, but we wanted him settled at his new school first.
But then the husky kept coming. Same time every day, sat by the porch like he owned the place.
It was weird—like we were the guests, not him. Alfie adored him, though. Spent hours playing fetch, chatting away like they’d been mates for years. I’d watch from the kitchen, grinning at how quickly they’d bonded.
Exactly what Alfie needed after everything.
One morning, Alfie’s fingers brushed the dog’s collar.
“Mum, there’s a name on here!” he called.
I crouched down, pushing back the fur to see the worn leather. Faint, but unmistakable:
Arthur Jr.
My stomach flipped.
Arthur—same as the man who’d owned our house. Was this his dog? Gemma hadn’t said anything about a pet.
“D’you think he comes ‘round ‘cause this used to be his home?” Alfie asked, eyes wide.
I shrugged, uneasy.
“Could be, love. Hard to say.”
Later, after Arthur Jr. ate, he started acting odd—whining, pacing by the garden fence, staring into the woods.
“Mum, he wants us to follow him!” Alfie said, already grabbing his coat.
I wavered.
“Not sure that’s a good idea, sweetheart…”
“Come on!” Alfie begged. “We’ll take our phones, text Dad—please?”
Something in the dog’s urgency got to me. This wasn’t just a wander. So we went.
Arthur Jr. led the way, glancing back to check we were still there. The woods were quiet, just the crunch of leaves underfoot.
“Still sure about this?” I asked.
“Yeah!” Alfie said. “Dad’s got our location.”
Twenty minutes in, the dog stopped dead at a clearing.
Then I saw it—a pregnant vixen, tangled in a poacher’s snare, barely moving.
“Bloody hell,” I whispered, rushing over.
She was weak, her leg raw where the trap bit in. Alfie’s voice shook.
“Mum, we’ve got to help her!”
It took ages, but I finally pried the trap loose. The fox just lay there, panting.
“We need to get her to the vet, now,” I said, calling Ollie.
He brought a blanket, and we bundled her up. Arthur Jr. trotted alongside like he was part of the rescue mission.
The vet said she needed surgery. We waited, Alfie quiet beside the husky, fingers buried in his fur.
“She’ll be alright, won’t she?” Alfie asked.
“Hope so, love,” I said.
When she woke, she howled—proper screeching. The vet couldn’t calm her. Neither could Ollie. But the second I walked in, she went silent, eyes locked on mine.
“Like she knows you saved her,” the vet said.
Two days later, we took her home, set her up in the shed to recover. Alfie named her Ruby. Arthur Jr.—now AJ—never left her side.
Then she had four tiny cubs. Most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. And she let us near them.
“Only us,” Alfie whispered one day as we checked on them. “She trusts us.”
“And AJ,” I added.
When the cubs were strong enough, we built them a proper den in the woods and set them free. Now, every weekend, Alfie, AJ, and I visit. Ruby always trots out to greet us, cubs tumbling behind.
What would you have done?
