Around four in the morning, a dog began barking behind the row of terraced houses. By five, the barking had grown louder, more frantic. People stirred awake, irritation gnawing at them as they prepared for work, the relentless noise cutting through the quiet dawn. By half past five, residents trickled out onto the pavement, grumbling as they trudged toward their routines.
The first to step outside were a man and a woman—likely a married couple. Exchanging weary glances, they decided to investigate the source of the racket. Just a short walk toward the garage blocks, they spotted her. A German Shepherd, barking incessantly, her snout pointed toward the houses. Behind her, a man lay motionless on the ground. The couple broke into a run, the dog’s desperate cries now making sense.
But the closer they got, the fiercer her barks became. A warning. A threat. Trained and wary, she wouldn’t let them near. The woman dialled for an ambulance, her voice tense.
The paramedics arrived swiftly. The woman warned them as they stepped out: *There’s a dog—she won’t let anyone close.* But the moment the ambulance pulled up, the barking ceased. The Shepherd padded back to her owner’s side and sat, watchful.
The medics approached cautiously. The dog stayed still.
*What’s the plan?*
*She’s smart. Let’s try. If she lunges, use the spray.*
One knelt beside the injured man, keeping the dog in his periphery. A pulse—weak. A man in his thirties, bleeding heavily from an abdominal wound. They worked fast: bandages, injections, swift hands. The dog observed, unmoving.
A small crowd had gathered, keeping their distance. No one dared step closer.
The medics fetched a stretcher, loaded the man into the ambulance. The dog couldn’t come. They locked eyes for a moment—helplessness on both sides. The engine rumbled to life. The ambulance rolled forward. The Shepherd ran alongside, keeping pace all the way to the hospital gates.
The vehicle slowed at the barrier. The guard raised it, eyeing the dog.
*This man’s been stabbed. That’s his dog.*
*And what am I supposed to do?* He barked a command: *Stay! Down! No!*
The Shepherd hesitated, then obeyed—sitting rigid before the barrier, her gaze tracking the ambulance until it vanished.
For an hour, she didn’t move. Eventually, she settled near the fence, out of the way. The guards watched her, expecting her to bolt inside. But she waited.
*What do we do?*
*Nothing. She’ll leave eventually.*
*Or she won’t. What if he doesn’t make it?*
*Then she’ll wait forever.*
A resigned sigh. *Should we feed her?*
*And lose your job? Brilliant idea.*
Dawn broke. The Shepherd still hadn’t budged.
One guard, softer-hearted, slipped away. *I’ll check on the bloke. Maybe get her some scraps.*
Forty minutes later, he returned with a plastic plate of leftovers—sausage, minced beef, a bowl of water.
*You can’t feed her here. Come on,* he coaxed, setting it by the roadside.
The Shepherd studied him. The food. The hospital. Then she stood, deliberate. Approached. Drank deeply.
—————
A week passed. The man—now recovering in a ward—had no one to ask about his dog. The loneliness gnawed at him. They’d been partners, once. Both military, both discharged. He prayed she’d survive this.
Meanwhile, the Shepherd had shifted her vigil beneath the trees, still watching the gates. The guard kept sneaking her food. An idea struck him.
After his shift, he headed to the ward. Four beds. Two occupied—one bedridden, the other in tracksuit bottoms.
*You’re Thomas Whitfield?*
The man turned. *Yes. Why?*
*Hospital security. Good news. That German Shepherd—yours?*
*Why “was”?* Panic edged his voice.
*Sorry—she *is* yours. She’s been at the gates all week. We’ve been feeding her.*
Thomas shut his eyes, grinning. *Mine. Alma. Trained. Too clever for her own good.*
*We noticed.* The guard chuckled, relieved.
*Could you…* Thomas gestured weakly. *Hand me a tissue.* He pressed it to his palms, his face. *Now put it in a bag. Take it to her. She’ll understand.*
—————
The guard carried the crumpled plastic to the trees. Alma’s ears pricked. The bag crinkled in his grip.
He laid it down, stepped back.
She sniffed. Lingered. Then, with aching care, she nosed the tissue free, carried it beneath the oak, and curled around it—her head resting atop the scent of home.
Epilogue:
Alma waited.
And when Thomas finally walked through those gates, the joy was indescribable.
They’d saved each other before.
This time, she’d saved him by staying.
And he came back.
