**Diary Entry – 12th October**
The morning began quietly enough. I started the engine, checked the mirrors, and glanced at my golden-haired beauty in the passenger seat. Poppy had always loved car rides—sitting quietly, gazing out the window, occasionally resting her head on my knee. A well-behaved, clever girl, never any trouble.
“Right then, Poppy, off we go?” I grinned, turning the key.
She wagged her tail in reply, but instead of looking out, she fixed her eyes on me.
After a few minutes, her stare grew intense. She sat with her head slightly tilted, watching me unblinkingly, as if trying to tell me something.
“Oi, what’s got into you?” I chuckled. “Did I forget the indicator?”
She barked in response—not a quick warning, but loud and insistent, like she was arguing with me.
“Easy, girl,” I said, keeping one eye on the road. “What’s all this about?”
But she didn’t stop. The barking grew sharper, more frantic, and I started to feel uneasy. Normally, Poppy was silent in the car—this wasn’t like her.
“You hungry? Or just tired?”
She didn’t react. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, still staring straight at me. There was something in her eyes that sent a chill down my spine.
“Blimey, you’re creeping me out now,” I muttered, keeping one hand on the wheel while reaching over to stroke her fur.
And then I noticed. Her gaze wasn’t fixed on *me*—it was fixed on something else. Something horrifying. I slammed on the brakes and saw it…
I carefully returned my hand to the wheel, but the unease wouldn’t leave. Poppy sat rigid, unblinking, her eyes darting from me to somewhere near the pedals.
“What, is there something there?” I glanced down, though I couldn’t see much from my seat.
She barked again, then looked urgently ahead, as if willing me to act. I’d never seen her so desperate.
“Alright, alright,” I muttered, pulling onto the shoulder.
Once stopped, I stepped out and popped the bonnet—nothing seemed amiss at first glance. Then I crouched to check underneath. There, beneath the front wheel, a murky fluid dripped slowly onto the tarmac.
“Brake fluid,” I exhaled.
I touched the droplets—the smell confirmed it. One of the brake lines had split, leaking fluid straight onto the road.
A thought flashed through my mind—if I’d kept driving, especially on the motorway, the brakes could’ve failed completely.
I looked up at Poppy. She sat in the passenger seat, head poking out slightly, watching me with calm, knowing eyes.
“Well, girl, you’re my guardian angel today,” I said, ruffling her ears.
Only then did I realise—that strange barking, that piercing stare—it hadn’t been a whim. She’d been saving our lives.
