It was around four in the morning when the barking began behind the row of houses. By five, the noise had grown louder, disturbing the early risers as they prepared for work, their irritation rising with each frantic yelp. Half past five came, and the residents began trickling out, heading to their daily labour.
The first to step outside were a man and a woman—likely husband and wife—who resolved to investigate the source of the commotion. They walked a short distance toward the garages and saw her: a German Shepherd, barking relentlessly, her snout turned toward the houses. Behind her, a man lay motionless on the ground. The couple hurried forward, realizing the dog was calling for help.
Yet the closer they got, the fiercer her growls became. She was a trained beast, not one to be trifled with. The woman suggested ringing for an ambulance.
It arrived swiftly. Two medics stepped out, having been warned of the wary dog. But as they approached, the barking ceased. The shepherd moved to her master’s side and sat quietly.
The medics edged closer, eyeing the animal. “What now?” “Seems clever enough—let me try. Keep the pepper spray ready.” Kneeling cautiously, one checked the man’s pulse—weak but present. A young fellow, no more than thirty-five, badly wounded in the abdomen. They worked swiftly: bandages, injections. The dog watched, still as stone.
By now, a small crowd had gathered, though none dared come nearer than ten paces. A stretcher was fetched, the man carefully lifted. The dog could not be taken. She stared, they stared. Rules were rules.
The ambulance drove off, bumping over uneven lanes. The shepherd gave chase, keeping pace, lagging, then surging forward again. The hospital was close. At the gates, the vehicle stopped. The guard raised the barrier, eyeing the animal.
“That’s his dog,” the driver said.
The guard scoffed. “What am I to do?” He barked commands—”Stay! Down!”—and the dog, confused, obeyed. She sat, watching the ambulance vanish beyond the gates.
For an hour she waited, then shifted nearer the fence, out of the way. The guards monitored her at first, expecting her to slip past. But as time wore on, they merely glanced her way.
“What shall we do?” “Nothing. Wait and see.” “How long’ll she stay?” “Who knows? Might leave.” “She’s clever. What if she waits forever?” “Then she waits. Can’t feed her—rules.”
Morning came. The dog remained. At shift change, one guard said, “I’ll check on the man. Maybe fetch her scraps.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Forty minutes later, he returned. “Man’s stable. Got leftovers.” He set down a plate of sausage, a bowl of water.
“Come,” he urged. The dog studied him, unmoving. “Eat. Drink.”
She stood, hesitant, glancing between him and the gates. Then, at last, she crept forward, lapping thirstily.
A week passed. The man—now recovering—longed for news of his companion. They had served together, left the army as one. He refused to believe she would vanish.
Meanwhile, the dog had retreated beneath the trees, still watching the gates. The guard fed her scraps, then had an idea. After his shift, he entered the ward.
“Mr. Whitmore?”
The man turned. “Yes?”
“I’m from the gate. Your dog—she’s still there.”
Whitmore’s face lit with quiet joy. “Alma. She’s mine. Trained. Clever.”
“We’ve seen,” he chuckled. “Could I—? A tissue, please.”
The guard handed him one. Whitmore rubbed it over his hands, his face, then tucked it into a plastic bag. “Give this to her. She’ll understand.”
At the trees, the guard laid the bag down. Alma sniffed it, then drew out the tissue with gentle care. She carried it beneath the branches, laid it on her paws, and rested her head upon it.
And so she waited.
When Whitmore finally walked through those gates, the reunion was beyond words. They had saved each other before. She had known—all she had to do was wait.
And she did.
