Grandad, look! Sophie pressed her nose against the frosty window. A dog!
A scruffy black mongrel was pacing by the garden gate, ribs poking out, as filthy as a lost sock under the sofa.
Oh, not that mutt again, grumbled Arthur Thompson, forcing his wellies on with a sigh. Third day its been loitering round here. Go on! Clear off!
He shook his walking stick threateningly. The dog darted back, but didnt run far. She plonked herself about five metres off and just stared. Not barking, not growlingjust watching intently.
Grandad, dont chase her away! Sophie clung to his coat sleeve. Shes probably starving and freezing!
Ive got enough on my plate as it is! the old man huffed. Last thing we needs fleas and some miserable dog bringing in all sorts. Off you go!
The dogs tail drooped as she slunk away. But as soon as Arthur disappeared indoors, she was back again, settling outside the gate like it was her job.
Sophie had been living with her grandfather for half a year, ever since her parents were taken in a car accident. Arthur had taken her in, despite being far more used to an orderly, silent life than the ways of children. She was a girl who sobbed quietly at night, and always asked, Grandad, when are Mum and Dad coming home?
How do you tell a child never? Arthur would only grunt and turn away. It was hardon them both. But there wasnt anywhere else to go.
One afternoon, while her grandad dozed in front of Bargain Hunt, Sophie crept out into the back garden. She had a bowl filled with leftover soup.
Come on, Maisie! she whispered. Thats what Ive called you. Nice name, isnt it?
The mongrel eased over warily. She licked the bowl clean, then curled up with her nose on her paws, eyes brimming with gratitude and loyalty.
Youre a good girl, Sophie murmured, stroking her gently. You really are.
From then on, Maisie barely left the garden. She kept guard by the gate, trotted after Sophie to school and back, and every time Arthur saw her, hed boom, so even the birds got a shock:
You again! Give it a rest, will you?!
But Maisie was shrewdshed figured out this was a man who barked, but certainly didnt bite.
Old Bill Simmons, their neighbour, would watch the whole pantomime over the fence and chuckle.
You know, Arthur, you really shouldnt chase her away.
And why not? I need a dog like I need another gas bill!
Maybe Bill pondered, maybe shes here for a reason, sent to you, perhaps.
Arthur just snorted.
A week passed. Maisie continued bedding down by the gate through February sleet and chill. Sophie snuck her scraps from supper, and Arthur pretended to see nothing at all.
Grandad, can Maisie come into the porch? Sophie pleaded at dinner. Its warmer there.
No, and thats the end of it! Arthurs fist thudded the table. Animals do not belong indoors!
But she
No buts! Enough of your nonsense!
Sophie pouted and fell silent. But that night Arthur struggled to sleep. In the morning, he peered out the window.
Maisie was huddled in a snowdrift, curled up so tight she was almost invisible. Not long left at this rate Arthur muttered, strangely uneasy.
On Saturday, Sophie went to the pond to skate. Maisie, as loyal as ever, followed her. Sophie spun and laughed, Maisie sat on the bank, tail wagging.
Watch me! Sophie called, skating gleefully towards the middle of the pond.
The ice sang, then cracked. Sophie plunged through.
The water was black and bitingly cold. She tried to scream, flailing wildly, but icy splashes muffled everything.
Maisie froze for a split secondthen shot off. She dashed home, barking madly.
Arthur was chopping firewood. He heard ita frantic, piercing bark. He spun, saw the dog tearing around, yelping, tugging at his trousers, desperate to drag him towards the gate.
Whats got into you? he grumbled.
But Maisie wouldnt stop. She howled, tugged, eyes wide with panic. Suddenly, Arthur understood.
Sophie! he shouted, chasing after Maisie.
She bolted ahead, pausing to make sure he was still following, then dashed on towards the pond.
Arthur spotted a dark shape in the waterheard weak splashing.
Hold on! he roared, snatching a long pole. Hold on, love!
He crept onto the cracking iceheart in his mouthand somehow pulled Sophie out by her puffy coat. Maisie dashed in circles, barking, encouraging, her tail whizzing like a windmill.
Sophie was blue. Arthur rubbed her with snow, breathed into her face, praying to anyone whod listen.
Grandad, Sophie whispered hoarsely at last, wheres Maisie?
Outside the frosted window, Maisie was trembling tooeither with cold or leftover terror.
Shes here, Arthur croaked. Right here.
After that day, something shifted. Arthur never shouted at the dog again, but still wouldnt allow her indoors.
Grandad, please, Sophie begged. She saved me!
She did, yes. Still, theres no space.
But why not?
Because thats the way I do things! Arthur barked.
It was himself he was angry with, although why he hardly knew. Rules were rules, after allexcept his heart felt like it was riddled with stray cats.
Bill Simmons popped round for tea and ginger biscuits, observing quietly,
Heard about what happened?
I heard, Arthur muttered stiffly.
Good dog. Clever girl.
Some are.
One you ought to treasure.
Arthur shrugged gruffly.
We look after her, dont we? Not chasing her any more.
Not chasing her, no, Bill agreed. But shes still sleeping out there in the snow! Thats not exactly grateful, mate, is it?
Dogs meant to be outside! huffed Arthur. Its what dogs do!
Bill shook his head. Odd chap, you. She saves your granddaughters life and thats how you say thanks.
I dont owe that mongrel anything! Arthur blurted. We feed her, dont hit herthats enough!
Maybe. But what about just being decent?
Being decents for peoplenot mangy mutts!
Bill let it drop. He knew it was no use arguing, but his disappointed look hung in the air like a damp towel.
The winter drew in properly thensnowdrifts up to your knees and winds that howled down the chimney like banshees. Arthur barely kept up, shoveling pathways, only to find them vanished in the morning.
Maisie stayed at her post by the gate, skinnier than ever, fur matted and eyes dull, but refusing to budge.
Grandad, Sophie tugged his sleeve, just look at her. Shes barely alive.
She made her own bed, Arthur snapped. No ones forcing her.
But
Enough! he thundered. Please, can we get a break from your dog business?
Sophie sulked off for the rest of the evening. Later, she ventured,
“Maisie’s not been around today.”
“And?”
“I mean, really not. Maybe she’s ill?”
“Or maybe she’s wandered off at lastwhich would be a relief!”
“Grandad! How can you say that?”
“And why not? Shes not ours! We owe her nothing!”
“But we do,” Sophie said quietly. “She saved me. We never even gave her a warm bed.”
“No space!” Arthur thumped the table. “This is a home, not a kennel!”
Sophie sobbed and fled to her room. Arthur sat glowering at his newspaper, but somehow, it all made less sense than usual.
That night a windstorm rattled the house so thoroughly it felt as if the bricks were jostling. The windows groaned and the snow jabbed at the glass; Arthur tossed in bed, sleepless.
Dogs weather, he thought, then bit back, Whats it to me? Not my concern! But it was, and he knew it.
By dawn, the wind had fallen. Arthur made tea and peered out. The garden was buried, paths vanished, only the bench back visible above the snow. And, by the gate
Something dark in a drift. Probably a bin bag, Arthur told himself, but his heart tumbled.
He yanked on his coat, jammed on the wellies, and waded into snow up to his knees. By the gate, he stopped and stared.
Lying in the drift was Maisie, half-buried, only her ears and tail tip poking out.
Thats it, then thought Arthur. Something inside him seemed to chip and fall away.
He brushed away the snow. The dog was still alivebut only just, breathing raggedly, eyes closed.
You daft thing, Arthur whispered, why didnt you leave?
Maisie quivered at his voice, tried to raise her head, but flopped back, spent.
Arthur stood there, thinking. Then, Oh, sod it, he muttered and gathered her into his arms.
She was as light as a featherskin and bone and scraps of fur, but warm. Still alive.
Come on, he muttered, staggering towards the house. Stay with me, you silly sausage.
He laid her in the porch, then, after a moments thought, brought her into the kitchen, setting Maisie on a faded blanket by the Aga.
Grandad? Sophie appeared in her pyjamas, eyes wide. Whats happened?
This? Arthur stammered. Looks like she nearly froze out there. Best let her warm up a bit.
Is she alive? Grandad, is Maisie alive?!
She is. Get her some warm milk, pet, will you?
Right! Sophie darted to the stove.
Arthur knelt by Maisie, stroking her head. What sort of man am I? he thought. Damn near let her die. And all she did was trust us.
Maisie opened her eyes a crack, looked at him with such patient gratitude that Arthur suddenly found his throat tight.
Milks ready! Sophie plonked a bowl by the dogs nose.
Maisie managed to sip, then a little more, gradually gathering strength. Grandad and granddaughter watched, both smiling, as if witnessing a small miracle.
By lunchtime, Maisie was upright. By evening, padding gingerly about the kitchen. Arthur kept grumbling,
This is temporary! Understand? Once youre right again, back outside!
But Sophie only smiled, seeing how Grandad slipped her the best portions and fussed with the blanket, convinced no one was looking.
Hell never turn her out, Sophie knew. Not now.
Arthur rose early next morning. Maisie was watching him from her spot by the fire, tail twitching tentativelyhalf-expecting to be turfed out.
After breakfast, Arthur tugged on his jacket and headed out. He eyed the battered old doghouse by the shed, derelict for years.
Sophie! he called. Come out here, will you?
She dashed outMaisie, as ever, at her heels. The dog stayed close but didnt eye Arthur warily now.
See that? Arthur pointed. Roofs all shot, walls coming away. Needs fixing, I’d say.
But why, Grandad? Sophie blinked.
Why dyou think? he grumbled. Can’t have empty space going to rot. Its just not right.
He fetched plank, hammer, and nails, and got to work, swearing under his breath every time a nail bent or board was wonky. Maisie sat and watched, knowing exactly who the project was for.
By lunch, the kennel was transformedwatertight and cosy. Arthur laid out the old blanket, set bowls of food and water just so.
There you go, he declared, pretending not to look proud. Done and dusted.
Grandad, Sophie whispered, is it for Maisie?
Who else, eh? Arthur mumbled. She can’t live indoors, but she ought to live properlywell, for a dog, that is.
Sophie flung her arms round him. Thank you, grandad! Thank you!
He batted her off, grumbling, Enough fuss. And remember: its temporary! Until we find her a proper home.
He knew, and Sophie knew, thered be no search for new owners. Maisie was already theirs, never mind the paperwork.
Just then, Bill wandered over, eyes twinkling as he took in the fresh kennel, the wagging tail, Sophies happy grin.
Told you, Arthur. Maybe she really was meant to find you.
Dont start, Bill, Arthur retorted. I just felt sorry for her, thats all. Nothing special.
Of course, Bill nodded. Always had a good heart, you. Just like hiding it deep down.
Arthur meant to argue but thought better of it. He watched Maisie sniff her new home, Sophie petting her with that particular reverence children reserve for the heroic. And for the first time, Arthur realised they were a familyodd, patched together, but a family all the same.
All right, Maisie, he said quietly. This is your home too, now.
Maisie looked up at him, long and steady, before curling by her kennelmaking sure she could still see the door. Just in case her people needed her again.
