**Diary Entry – June 12th**
It was an ordinary night. My wife and I were asleep in our room, tucked under the blankets. Our six-year-old son and one-year-old daughter had long since drifted off in their own rooms. Quiet, peaceful—no hint of trouble.
Around three in the morning, our Labrador, Alfie, burst into the bedroom. He’d been with us eight years—a clever, gentle dog, part of the family. Never caused a fuss, always knew his place. But tonight, he was different.
Alfie rushed to my wife’s side of the bed, planted his paws on her chest, and let out soft barks. My stomach knotted. We’d trained him never to jump on the bed, and he’d always obeyed. Now, he was acting strangely, almost urgent. I jolted awake, heart pounding, half-expecting some unseen danger. Then it hit me—this wasn’t about Alfie.
A faint creak sounded from the hallway. Footsteps, barely there, moving carefully. Alfie positioned himself between us and the door—as if he knew exactly where the threat lurked.
I shook my wife awake, pressed a finger to my lips, and crept toward the door. Another sound—the quiet shuffle of shoes on hardwood. I grabbed my phone and dialled 999.
While we waited, we hid in the bathroom with the kids. Alfie stayed guard at the door, rigid, ears pricked. Seven agonising minutes later, a shout cut through the silence:
“Police! Stay where you are!”
Two burglars were caught inside our home. They’d broken in through the living room window, thinking they’d strip the place clean while we slept. But they hadn’t counted on Alfie.
He’s a proper hero. Who knows how it might’ve ended without him? We got him the biggest bone we could find and a thick new blanket. Now, every night, he sleeps by our bedroom door. No arguments.
Some things—some loyalties—you don’t question.
**Lesson learned:** Trust the instincts of those who love you, even if they’ve got four legs.
