Come with me! Ive no guard dog at the moment. Youll make a fine watchdogI wont treat you poorly! Grandad Albert hopped onto his bicycle and pedalled toward the village. More than once, he glanced over his shoulder but no one followed.
She was what folk called “wild at heart”just like some people are. She was no different.
Long ago, many years past, Grandad Albert had gone foraging for hazelnuts in the woods when he stumbled upon a half-grown pup. Only the Lord knew how the creature had ended up in those deep, lonely forests.
She wandered silently among the trees, not even tied upjust a small, rain-soaked thing. Grandad Albert frowned and stepped closer.
Clumsy, not much to look at and yet A pair of hazel eyes met hisnot the eyes of a pup, but of something wiser. He hesitated.
“Come with me! Ive no guard dog at the moment. Youll make a fine watchdogI wont treat you poorly!”
He mounted his bicycle and rode home. Again and again, he looked back but no one pursued him. Soon, the encounter slipped his mind.
He busied himself with chores. The farm was no small affairthree pigs, a sow with ten piglets, a dairy cow named Buttercup, a dozen chickens, six ducks with their ducklings, and a tomcat called Shadow
Grandad Albert rolled a cigarettehe never cared for shop-bought onesthen pushed open the gate and settled onto the bench outside, ready to relax. And then he froze.
Those hazel eyes stared back at him. Fixed. Silent. So strange he didnt know what to do.
“Well? Coming in?” After a long pause, the pup backed away and vanished into the dark.
This went on for days. Night after night, those eyes watched him, judging, searching for something familiar in his soul.
Then, one evening, as Grandad Albert sat rolling his cigarette, she approached. She sniffed him, then curled up at his feet.
He wasnt a sentimental man. Livestock was livestockhed slaughtered his share of pigs, cows, and chickens over the years.
Dogs were for guarding, cats for mousing He couldnt even recall how many dogs had come and gone on his watch. Poisoned, sickened, or just goneit happened. Now, the kennel stood empty.
At the start of summer, Thunder had breathed his last. The vet said ticks. No one mourned muchGrandad Albert was a hard man, sparing with tears. His wife, Margaret, was tougher still. The whole village remembered the time she felled a calf with a single punch between the eyes for butting her at the trough.
Grandad Albert took a drag and looked down at the pup curled at his feet. Those hazel eyes watched him closely.
“Right then, beastdecided to stay, have you? Listen well. Ill feed you twice a day, whatevers to hand. Wont mistreat you. Kennels warm. Nights, Ill let you off the chain for a few hours. Your jobs to guard this yardno strangers pass without fear! If that suits you, come on.”
And so her new life began. Grandad Albert named her Stellawhere hed heard such a fine name, no one knew. Now she had a warm kennel, a busy farm, and a chain.
Time passed, and the clumsy pup grew into a magnificent, powerful houndone the whole village feared. Some swore she had wolfs blood.
Beautiful, unusual and nothing like a dog. No tail-wagging, no licking hands. When Grandad Albert, Margaret, or family approached, Stella simply watched with those sharp, knowing eyes.
But strangers? Shed tear them apart. She barely barkedjust growled, low and terrible. Only by day, though. So they moved her kennel to the garden, lest neighbours fear knocking on the gate.
At night, Grandad Albert sometimes unchained her with a warning:
“Three hoursthen be back! Milkmaids wont dare cross you at dawn! Harm no one!”
Not once did she scare or bite. Perhaps her interests lay elsewhere. Yet, without fail, shed be in her kennel when he returnedearning his respect. Or maybe no, not yet.
Stella bore litters, as nature intended. Oddly, though the village feared her, her pups sold like hotcakes. Folk came from other villages, toofearful, but respectful. She never bit without cause.
One summers day, after breakfast, Stella dozed by her kennel, one eye on little Emily playing in the sandbox beneath the old oak, the other on Granny Margaret tending her patch.
Stella knew Margaret tied the girl to the tree while she worked. Emily, just three, visited on weekends. And every time, shed run straight to Stella, arms wide:
“Tel-la! Tel-la!”
The dogs heart swelled with joy. That fateful day, Stella kept watchthen dozed off.
She woke to claws scraping her nose. Shadow the tomcat hissed in her face:
“Do something! Emilys drowning!”
Stella looked past the fence. No Emilynot in the sandbox, on the swing, or by the tree. She turned to the cat.
“By the pondher bonnets in the water! Shes gone after it! Move!”
Stella barkedlouder than ever. She leapt, strained, nearly tore free of her chain.
Granny Margaret straightened, scowling.
“Mad creature,” she muttered, then bent back to her cabbages.
So Stella howled. Not just any howla wolfs cry, loud and awful, raising hairs across the village.
Only then did Margaret understand. She ranthank God, neighbours too.
They found Emily just in time, pulled her from the pond. The village eruptedparamedics came, Emilys parents wept with relief.
That evening, a delegation approached Stella: Emilys father, Oliver, his wife, and Grandad Albert.
Oliver crouched before her.
“Thank you. You saved my girl. Ill never forget. Come live with mebig house, a proper run. Ill feed you well, walk you every day.”
Stella watched him with those hazel eyes. Silent. Then she laid her head on his shoulderbrieflybefore padding back to Grandad Albert.
She curled at his feet. He stood stiff, unsure how to react until traitorous tears rolled down his weathered cheeks.
