**A Shaggy Saviour**
The steady rhythm of the train rumbling beneath me and the blur of trees outside the window lulled me into a doze. Oliver leaned his forehead against the glass, clutching a large pink doll’s box—a gift for his six-year-old daughter. Just over an hour left of his business trip, and he couldn’t wait to be home with his family again.
The dream was startlingly vivid—his house, his wife Beth, his little sunshine, Sophie. Even that scruffy mongrel, Scruff, made an appearance, the very dog he’d never wanted. Useless, skittish, too small to be of any use. But Sophie had begged with those big eyes when she found him as a stray pup, and Oliver hadn’t the heart to refuse.
The train jolted, brakes screeching. His eyes snapped open. Across from him sat a stranger.
“Good afternoon,” he mumbled, disoriented.
“Oh, sorry,” the woman smiled. “You just looked rather sweet—a serious man with a doll box on his lap.”
“For my daughter. I bring her something from every trip. Miss her terribly.”
“Your family’s lucky.”
“No,” he chuckled. “I’m the lucky one.”
The walk home took him past rows of terraced houses toward their quiet cul-de-sac. The gate stood ajar. Maybe Beth and Sophie had come out to meet him. But his wife, pale and shaking, rushed toward him before he could step inside.
“Oliver! Sophie’s gone!”
The words cut like glass. The smile vanished. He dropped his bag by the fence but kept hold of the doll.
Beth could barely breathe through her panic. Sophie had been playing with Scruff in the sandpit. She’d stepped inside for only a moment—when she returned, silence. No sign of their little girl. She’d checked the garden, the street, the house. Nothing.
“Was the gate locked?”
“Sophie could’ve opened it… but she knows better…”
They searched frantically. Checked neighbours’ gardens. Called her name. After an hour, they knew—this was serious. Police. A search party.
All that remained in the sandpit were a tiny bucket and footprints. Scruff was missing too.
“Maybe he’s with her,” the constable murmured.
Oliver refused to doubt—Sophie was alive. He’d search the woods himself. Didn’t even grab a coat. “If she’s cold, then I’ll be cold too,” he muttered, guiding his steps.
With a torch in hand and volunteers beside him, he combed through the trees. They paused, shouted. No answer. He remembered the day Sophie had tugged his sleeve after nursery and pointed to a shivering lump of fur—”Daddy, can we keep him?”
Scruff had become her shadow, curling beside her when she was ill, whining when she was away. More than a dog. A guardian.
Then—movement in the dark. A pink sunhat with ears. A tiny sandal.
“That’s hers!” Oliver choked out.
The volunteers stayed silent. Their faces said enough. But he refused fear. “She’s alive. I’ll find her.”
Hours later, shouts broke the quiet. A ravine. At the bottom—Sophie. Scratched, trembling, but breathing.
“Daddy… I’m thirsty,” she whispered as he lifted her.
“Shh, love. You’re safe now.”
Only as they reached the top did she stir. “Scruff’s still down there… He couldn’t climb up…”
They found him—limping, one paw broken. He’d dragged himself after them, leading their way to Sophie.
At the vet the next morning, the question hung in the air. “Put him down?”
“No. Fix him. He saved my little girl.”
Two weeks later, Sophie dashed around the garden again. Beside her, Scruff hobbled playfully, barking with joy. In every wag of his scrappy tail was more devotion than words could hold.
Not just useful, after all. A hero. A proper one.
