“Come with me! My yards got no dog at the moment. Youll make a fine guardno offence!” With that, Grandad Albert hopped on his bike and pedalled off toward the village. More than once, he glanced over his shoulder but no one followed.
She was what youd call “standoffish”the way some folk are described as “keeping to themselves.” Well, she was just the same.
Years ago, Grandad Albert had been out in the woods gathering hazelnuts when he stumbled upon a scrappy teenage pup. Heaven only knew how the poor thing had ended up deep in the forest. She just wandered silently among the trees, not even leashedjust a small, rain-soaked creature. Albert frowned and stepped closer.
Clumsy, not much to look at but still. Then she lifted her head, and brown eyes met hisnot the eyes of a pup, but of an old, knowing beast. Albert hesitated.
“Come with me! My yards got no dog at the moment. Youll make a fine guardno offence!”
He climbed onto his bike and rode home. More than once, he glanced back but no one followed. Soon, hed forgotten all about the woodland encounter.
Life on the farm kept him busythree pigs, a sow with ten piglets, Daisy the cow, a dozen hens, six ducks with their ducklings, and the cat, Marmaduke
Grandad Albert rolled a cigarettecouldnt stand the shop-bought onespushed open the gate, and finally settled on the bench outside his cottage for a quiet smoke. Then he froze.
Those brown eyes were fixed on him. Watching. Waiting. So intently that he didnt know what to do.
“Well? Coming in, then?” After a long pause, the pup backed away and vanished into the shadows.
This went on for daysthose eyes studying him every evening, weighing him up, searching for something familiar.
Then one night, as Albert sat on his bench rolling another cigarette, *she* approached. Sniffed him. Then lay at his feet.
Albert wasnt the sentimental sort. Livestock was livestockhed slaughtered more pigs, cows, and chickens than he cared to remember. Dogs were for guarding, cats for mousing. Hed lost count of how many dogs had come and gone on his watchpoisoned, sick, or just plain unlucky. The kennel in the yard stood empty.
That summer, old Thunder had kicked the bucketvet said it was ticks. No one shed many tears. Albert was a tough old bird, sparing with his emotions. His wife, Margaret, was even hardergoodness, that woman had a temper. The whole village still talked about the time shed punched a calf square between the eyes for butting her at the trough.
Albert took a drag and looked down at the pup beside his boots. Those brown eyes watched him steadily.
“Right then, beastie. Reckon youve decided to stay? Listen hereyoull be fed twice a day, whatevers going. No frills. Theres a kennel. Warm. Ill let you off the chain some nights for a few hours. Your jobs to guard this placeno strangers waltzing in unchallenged! If that suits, come on then.”
And so began her new life. Albert named her Stella. Where hed dug up such a posh name, no one knew. Now she had a cosy kennel, a busy farm, and a chain.
Time passed, and the awkward pup grew into a magnificent, powerful dogone the whole village feared. Some even whispered she had wolf blood. Beautiful, yes, but peculiar. None of the usual tail-wagging or hand-licking. When Albert, Margaret, or family came near, Stella just lay there, watching with those clever eyes.
But strangers? Shed have torn them apart. She didnt even bark muchjust a low, bone-chilling growl. Only during the day, though, so Albert moved her kennel to the vegetable patch to keep the neighbours from bolting at the gate.
At night, hed sometimes unclip her chain with a gruff, “Three hours. Be back. Dairy girls are too scared to milk the cows thanks to youdont go scaring anyone! Three hours!”
Not once did she bite or frighten a soul. Mustve had other business. But always, *always*, she was back in her kennel on time. Albert respected that. Or maybeno, he wasnt one for mushy thoughts then.
Stella had pups regularly, as nature intended. Oddly, though the village feared *her*, her puppies were snapped up like hotcakesfolk even came from other villages for them. Fear or not, they respected her. She didnt go for throats without cause.
One summers day, Stella dozed by her kennel, one eye on little Maisie playing in the sandpit under the old oak by the gate, the other on Granny Margaret hoeing her cabbages.
Stella knew Margaret tied Maisie to the tree to stop her wandering off. The girl was just three, visiting on weekends with her parents. And every time, Maisie would run straight to Stella, arms wide”Teh-la! Teh-la!”and the dogs heart would swell.
That fateful day, Stella kept watch then dozed off.
She woke to claws scratching her nose. Marmaduke the cat stood before her, hissing, *”Do something! Maisies drowning!”*
Stella looked past the fence. No Maisienot in the sandpit, not on the swing, not by the tree. She turned to the cat.
“Shes at the pond. Her sunhats in the watershes gone after it! Move, you great lump! No one listens to me! *Meeeeeoooow!*”
Then Stella *barked*louder than ever in her life. She leapt, strained, nearly yanked the chain from its post.
Granny Margaret straightened up and glared. “Lost the plot, you daft mutt,” she muttered, turning back to her cabbages.
So Stella *howled*. Not just any howla blood-curdling, wolfish scream that raised every hair in the village.
Margaret froze. Then she *ran*.
Maisie was hauled from the pond just in time. The whole village eruptedambulances, weeping parents, relief tangled with terror.
That evening, a delegation approached Stella: Maisies dad, Tom, his wife, and Grandad Albert. Tom crouched before her.
“Thank you. You saved my girl. Ill never forget it. Come live with usweve a house in town, a big run. Youll eat like a queen, have walks every day.”
Stella just watched him with those brown eyes. Then she stepped forward, rested her head on his shoulderjust for a momentbefore turning back to Albert. She lay at his feet.
The old man stood rooted. Didnt know what to do with such “nonsense.” And though hed never admit it, a few stubborn tears betrayed him.
