**Betrayal or Loyalty Saved**
“I’ve made up my mind, Mum! Enough!” Jake stubbornly stared out the window, his lips pressed tight.
“You… you’re a traitor, Jake!” His mother’s voice trembled, thick with despair and accusation.
“A traitor? Me?!” The boy gasped in outrage, then wheeled around and stormed out of the room.
He slammed the door behind him, flung himself onto the bed, and buried his face in the pillow. Anger churned inside him, but soon, memories took its place—warm ones, fragrant with summer and joy.
When Jake turned eight, his dad gave him the bike he’d always dreamed of—a bright blue stunt bike, gleaming under the sun. The boy was over the moon, racing around the estate with his mates from dawn till dusk, forgetting everything else. Even his dad’s upcoming birthday. Until Grandpa reminded him.
“Jake, lad, have you thought of a present for your dad yet?” he asked quietly as they sat together on the porch.
“No, Grandad… I didn’t even think of it…”
“That’s alright. We’ll make something together. I’ve got an idea.”
For two weeks, they crafted a wooden key holder—carving, sanding, staining, attaching hooks. Jake worked just as hard as his grandad, even leaving his beloved bike to gather dust in the shed.
On his dad’s birthday, the man was oddly cheerful and secretive. He thanked Jake for the gift, kissed him, and hugged Grandad. Then, grinning, he brought out a woven basket from the porch. Inside, a puppy slept—plump, black, his coat glossy.
“Meet Baxter. My gift to myself. A childhood dream.”
“John, have you lost your mind?!” Mum threw up her hands. “A *dog*?!”
“Not just any dog—look at him, he’s like a little bear!” Dad laughed, his face lit up with boyish delight, and no one could stay cross.
Baxter was loved instantly. A Staffordshire Terrier, he grew like yeast—strong, broad-chested, calm, and kind. He adored Dad, shadowing him protectively everywhere. Then, one day, he saved him.
Late one evening in the park, two strangers cornered Dad, flashing a knife. Out of nowhere, Baxter charged from the bushes—black as night, fierce as a shadow. Just the sight of him sent the men stumbling back.
“If only they knew he wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Dad later joked.
But the real nightmare came later. Illness. Leukaemia. In months, Dad faded like a candle in the wind. Jake was only twelve. Baxter became his shadow.
Now Jake is fifteen. A year ago, his mum met Oliver—a decent man, polite. But when he moved in, they discovered his severe dog allergy.
At first, Mum tried to brush it off, then she put it plainly: “We need to rehome Baxter.” Oliver was family now, she argued. Jake listened in disbelief. How could they betray the one who’d never betrayed them?
He asked his friends—no luck. An ageing Staffy wasn’t what anyone wanted. Taking him to Grandad wasn’t an option—the old man could barely walk himself.
“I won’t send him to a shelter!” Jake snapped during their final argument.
“But Oliver is *ours* now,” Mum wept. “Is a dog really more important than a person?”
“More important than Oliver? Yes,” Jake exhaled. “Because he’s *my* family. Baxter was Dad’s family. And mine. And yours, Mum. Let me move in with Grandad. We won’t be in the way.”
“And what about me? Split between two homes? I work, Jake—”
He silently pointed to the key holder they’d made with Grandad years ago. Baxter’s lead still hung there.
“I’ve already decided.”
“Traitor,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Later, Grandad called her himself.
“Liz, love, let the lad stay with me. He can do school remotely. Honestly, I’d rather have him here. Baxter too. We’ll manage.”
Even Oliver surprised them.
“Let him go, Liz. The boy’s old enough. The dog’ll be fine. Why force it?”
Jake arrived with Baxter and a duffel bag. The dog flopped by Grandad’s telly with a happy huff. Everything fell into place.
Then, one evening, Grandad called, his voice faint and strained.
“Jake, something’s wrong. My chest—come quick.”
Jake bolted home from school. A neighbour had already called an ambulance and was hovering anxiously by the bed.
“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. I’ve got it now.”
The paramedics arrived swiftly. The doctor gave an injection. A young medic named Emily hesitated at the door, eyeing Baxter.
“Don’t worry, he’s gentle,” Jake assured her.
“Wasn’t worried,” she smiled, stepping inside.
The doctor advised home treatments.
“Can anyone administer them?”
“Not really,” Jake admitted helplessly.
“Emily, you up for it?” the doctor asked.
“Done—if the beast doesn’t eat me.”
She winked at Baxter. The dog blinked back, tongue lolling, as if nodding.
That was the beginning.
Emily came daily. Jake walked her out. Then they strolled together. Then lingered in the park. Their talks grew longer, softer, deeper.
Then little Alfie was born.
Baxter met Emily at the door like family. He abandoned his spot by the telly for a rug outside Alfie’s nursery, growling softly when the baby stirred. Always there. Always close.
Alfie took his first steps clutching Baxter’s collar.
At thirteen, the old dog wheezed but still padded patiently beside the toddler—weary, wise, unchanged in loyalty.
One evening, Emily dashed to the shop for nappies. Alfie napped. Grandad dozed in his chair.
“Don’t fret,” Grandad murmured. “We’ll manage.”
But his heart gave out. Pain. Blackness.
Baxter leapt onto the sofa, licking his hand. Then to Alfie. Then to the door—pawing at it. When it swung open, he bolted to Mrs. Thompson’s. She knew.
Jake returned to the scent of antiseptic and damp air.
“I’m sorry,” Emily sobbed. “If not for Baxter—”
“It’s alright. We’re okay.”
Baxter watched from the floor, his gaze heavy, deep, full of love.
He didn’t betray.
Never.
