Somewhere around four in the morning, a dog began barking behind the houses. By five, its frantic yelps grew louder. People stirred awake for work, irritation rising with each sharp cry. Around half past five, weary residents trudged out into the dim dawn.
The first to step beyond their door were a man and woman—husband and wife, it seemed. Disturbed by the relentless noise, they decided to investigate. Not far past the garages, they spotted the dog: a German shepherd, barking wildly toward the houses. Behind it, a man lay motionless on the ground. The couple hurried forward, realising the dog was calling for help.
Yet the closer they came, the fiercer its barks turned. A trained shepherd was no mere pet—too dangerous to approach. The woman suggested ringing for an ambulance.
The medics arrived swiftly. Warned of the dog’s aggression, they hesitated before stepping out. But the moment the ambulance pulled near, the barking ceased. The shepherd padded to its master’s side and sat, watchful.
The medics edged closer. The dog remained still.
“What now?” one muttered.
“Seems clever enough. I’ll go. If it moves, use the spray.”
Kneeling cautiously, the medic checked for a pulse—weak but there. A young man, mid-thirties, bleeding heavily from a stomach wound. Swift hands bandaged the injury while another prepared injections. The shepherd observed, unblinking.
By then, a small crowd had gathered, keeping a wary distance. No one dared approach.
A stretcher was fetched, the man loaded gently into the ambulance. But the dog? Rules barred it. The medics exchanged glances with the creature as the engine rumbled to life. Then, as the vehicle lurched forward, the shepherd followed, loping steadfastly beside it.
The hospital wasn’t far. The dog kept pace, lagging at times but never losing sight. At the gate, the ambulance halted. Guards lifted the barrier, and the driver called out, “That bloke’s his dog.”
One guard scoffed, “What am I supposed to do?” He hissed commands: “Stay! Down!” Confused, the shepherd obeyed, sitting rigidly as the ambulance vanished inside.
For an hour, it waited by the gate before shifting nearer the fence, out of the way. The guards watched at first, expecting it to bolt. But when it didn’t, they merely glanced over occasionally.
“What’ll we do with it?” one muttered.
“Nowt. It’ll leave.”
“Clever thing. Might wait forever.”
“Bloke could croak. Then what?”
“Poor sod. Should we feed it?”
“Feed it here? You’ll get sacked.”
“Well, what then?”
“Wait. Might go on its own.”
———
Morning broke. The shepherd still lay by the gate. At shift change, the new guard was briefed. One departing man said, “I’ll ask after the bloke. And warn them not to call the dogcatchers.” He eyed the animal. “Might fetch it scraps too.”
“Don’t encourage it!”
“Aye, let it starve, then.”
The dog studied them, ears pricked. Forty minutes later, the guard returned.
“Well?”
“Operated on. In recovery. Stable, they reckon.” He held a plastic plate: a meat pie, bit of sausage, a bowl of water. “Can’t feed it here.” He set the dishes under a roadside tree. “C’mon then.”
The shepherd stared, unmoving.
“Eat, you daft thing. Go on.”
At last, it rose—sniffed, then lapped thirstily at the water.
———
A week passed. The dog’s master, now in a ward, grew stronger each day. But no one could tell him of his loyal companion. It gnawed at him. They’d served together, left the army side by side after he was wounded. He prayed the clever beast hadn’t come to harm.
Meanwhile, the shepherd had retreated to the trees, still eyeing the gate. The guard fed it scraps, an idea forming. After his shift, he sought the man’s ward.
Four beds filled the room. Two occupied—one patient bedridden, the other in trackies. The guard approached the former. “You Thomas Whitaker?”
“Aye. What’s happened?”
“Nowt bad! Your shepherd—it’s been at the gate all week. We’ve been feeding it.”
Thomas stilled. “Alma?”
“Clever as they come.”
Eyes closed, Thomas grinned, shaking his head. “Course she is. Trained her myself.”
The guard smiled, relieved. “Need aught?”
“A tissue—there, from the drawer. Rub it on my hands, my face.” Bemused, the guard obeyed. Thomas tucked it into a plastic bag. “Give this to her. She’ll understand.”
———
Outside, the guard approached Alma beneath the trees. She stood at once, gaze locked on the bag. He laid it down, stepping back. She nosed the tissue—long, deep breaths—then carried it gently to her spot beneath the oak. There she rested, the scrap cradled between her paws, her head bowed atop it.
Epilogue:
Alma waited. And when Thomas finally walked out, frail but alive, the reunion was beyond words. They’d saved each other before. She’d known he’d come. And he had.
