**The Shaggy Saviour**
The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels and the blur of trees outside lulled me into a light doze, my forehead pressed against the cool glass. My fingers clutched a large pink box containing a doll—a gift for my six-year-old daughter. Just over an hour left now; my business trip was nearly done, and I couldn’t wait to be home with my family.
The dream was oddly vivid—our beloved cottage, my darling Emily, and little Daisy, my sunshine. Even the scruffy mutt, Whiskers, made an appearance—the dog I’d never wanted. Small, useless, timid. But Daisy had begged, eyes wide, the day she carried that stray puppy home, and I hadn’t the heart to refuse.
The train jolted to a sudden stop, pulling me awake. Across from me sat a woman I didn’t recognise.
“Good afternoon. Do we know each other?” I asked, confused.
“No, sorry. I just thought it sweet—a serious-looking man with a doll box on his lap.”
“It’s for my daughter. I bring her something from every trip. Miss her terribly.”
“Lucky family you’ve got.”
“No,” I smiled. “I’m the lucky one.”
I made my way to the edge of the village, past rows of terraced houses, toward our quiet home. The garden gate stood open. Perhaps Emily and Daisy had stepped out to greet me. But my wife met me at the door, her face ghostly pale.
“James! Daisy’s gone!”
The words cut like a blade. The smile dropped from my face. I set my bag by the fence, the doll still in my hand.
Emily was shaking. She’d heard Daisy playing with Whiskers in the sandpit before stepping out to the kitchen. When she returned—silence. No Daisy. She’d searched the garden, the street, the house. Nothing.
“Was the gate open?”
“Daisy could’ve unlatched it… but she knows better…”
We tore through the neighbourhood, calling her name. An hour later, we called the police. A search party formed.
At the sandpit, only a tiny bucket and faint footprints remained. Whiskers was gone too.
“Maybe he’s with her,” the captain mused.
I refused to doubt—Daisy was alive. I’d find her. I plunged into the woods, ignoring the evening chill in just my shirt. “If Daisy’s cold, then so am I,” I muttered.
Flashlight in hand, I scoured the trees with the volunteers. We stopped, shouted—no answer. Memories surfaced—Daisy’s plea years ago: *”Daddy, can we keep the puppy?”* pointing at a shivering bundle.
Whiskers had become her shadow. Warming her when she was ill, sulking when she was away. More than a dog—her little guardian.
Then—movement in the dark. A pink sunhat. A tiny sandal.
“That’s hers!” My voice cracked.
The volunteers said nothing, their expressions heavy. But I pushed the fear down. *She’s alive. She is. I’ll find her.*
Hours later, shouts broke the stillness. A ravine. At the bottom—Daisy. Pale, scraped, but breathing.
“Daddy… I’m thirsty,” she whispered as I clung to her.
“Easy, love. You’re safe now.”
Only as we climbed back did she stir again. “Whiskers is down there… he couldn’t climb…”
We found him. Wounded, leg bruised and fractured. He’d dragged himself toward the voices—led them to Daisy.
At the vet the next morning, the question hung. “Put him down?”
“No. Fix him. He saved my girl.”
Two weeks later, Daisy was running in the garden again. Beside her—Whiskers, limping slightly, barking happily. Every step of that scruffy little hero held more love than words ever could.
Not just useful. Not just a dog. A true saviour.
