**Betrayal or Loyalty Saved**
I’d made up my mind, Mum. Enough was enough.
“You—you’re a traitor, Oliver!” Her voice trembled, thick with despair and reproach.
“A traitor? Me?” The word choked me. I spun on my heel and stormed out.
The door slammed behind me as I threw myself onto my bed, burying my face in the pillow. Fury burned inside me, but it was quickly overtaken by memories—warm, summer-scented, full of joy.
When I turned eight, Dad gave me the bike of my dreams—a sleek, stunt-ready BMX in racing blue. I was over the moon. From dawn till dusk, I raced around the estate with my mates, forgetting everything—even Dad’s upcoming birthday. It was Granddad who reminded me.
“Ollie, you thought of a gift for your dad yet?” he asked softly as we sat on the back porch.
“No, Granddad… I hadn’t even remembered.”
“Don’t fret. We’ll sort something. I’ve got an idea.”
For two weeks, we worked on a wooden key rack—carving, sanding, staining, fixing the hooks. I threw myself into it, even leaving my beloved bike gathering dust. On Dad’s birthday, he was oddly giddy. He thanked me for the gift, kissed my forehead, hugged Granddad. Then, grinning, he dragged out a wicker basket from the porch.
Inside, a puppy lay curled up—plump, glossy-coated, black as midnight.
“Meet Baxter. My gift to myself. Childhood dream.”
“James, you’ve lost the plot!” Mum threw her hands up. “A dog?”
“Not just any dog—look at him! Like a little bear!” Dad laughed, his boyish grin disarming us all.
Baxter was a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, growing strong, broad-chested, gentle. He adored Dad—shadowed him everywhere, guarding, watching. Then one night, he saved him.
Late in the park, two men cornered Dad—knives, threats. Then Baxter burst from the bushes—dark as the night, terrifying as a storm. One look sent them running.
“If they’d known he wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Dad said later, chuckling.
But the worst came after. Leukaemia. In months, Dad was gone—like a candle in the wind. I was twelve. Baxter became my shadow.
Now I’m fifteen. A year ago, Henry came into our lives. Decent, respectful. But when he moved in properly, it turned out he was badly allergic to dogs.
Mum tried smoothing it over at first, then said it outright: “We have to rehome Baxter.” Henry was family now. The dog… Wasn’t. I couldn’t believe it. How could you betray someone who’d never betrayed you?
I asked around—mates, neighbours—no one wanted an ageing Staffy. Granddad wasn’t an option; he could barely walk himself.
“I won’t send him to a shelter,” I said the day Mum pushed hardest.
“But Henry’s family now,” she pleaded. “Is a dog really worth more than a person?”
“Worth more than Henry? Yes,” I said. “Because he’s my family. Baxter was Dad’s. And mine. And yours, Mum. Let me take him to Granddad’s. We won’t be in the way.”
“And me? Split between two homes? I work, Ollie—”
I pointed silently at the key rack we’d made years ago. Baxter’s lead hung there.
“I’ve already decided.”
“Traitor,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Later, Granddad called her.
“Lydia, let the lad stay. There’s remote schooling. Truth be told, I’d like the company. And Baxter can stay. We’ll manage.”
Even Henry said, “Let him go, Lyd. He’s old enough. The dog’ll be fine. Why force it?”
I showed up at Granddad’s with Baxter and a duffel bag. The dog flopped by the telly with a happy grunt. Everything settled.
Then one day, Granddad called—his voice thin, uneasy.
“Ollie… my chest feels tight. Come home.”
I bolted. The neighbour had already called an ambulance but hovered nervously by Granddad’s bed when I arrived.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dawson. We’ll take it from here.”
The paramedics came fast. The doctor gave an injection. A young medic, Emily, lingered at the door, eyeing Baxter.
“Don’t worry, he’s gentle,” I said quickly.
“I’m not scared,” she smiled, stepping inside.
The doctor advised home drips.
“Someone to help?”
“I…” I hesitated.
“Emily, can you manage?” he asked.
“Course. Unless the beast eats me.”
She winked at Baxter. He lolled his tongue, almost nodding. And so it began.
Emily came daily. I started walking her out. Then strolling together. Then lingering in the park. Our talks grew longer, quieter, deeper…
Then, little Alfie was born.
Baxter met Emily at the door when she came home from the hospital, like proper family. He moved from his spot by the telly to a mat by Alfie’s cot. Watched over him, grumbling if he stirred. Slept close. Stayed close. Always.
Alfie took his first steps clutching Baxter’s collar.
Baxter was thirteen now. Breathing heavy, but patient as ever beside the toddler. Old, wise, tired—but just as loyal.
One day, Emily ran to the shop—nappies, milk. Alfie napped. Granddad was home.
“Don’t fret,” Granddad said. “We’ll be fine.”
But his heart gave out. Pain, darkness, helplessness.
Baxter leapt onto the sofa, licking his hand. Then to Alfie. Then to the door—scratching. Mrs. Dawson understood: trouble.
I came home to antiseptic and damp air.
“I’m sorry,” Emily sobbed. “If not for Baxter—”
“It’s alright. He’s alright.”
Baxter watched us from the floor. His gaze was heavy, deep, full of love.
He never betrayed us.
Never.
