Shaggy Guardian
Its strange how certain fears never seem to leave you, no matter how much you grow up. This evening on the High Street, while the shadows stretched across the pavement and the lamps began to flicker in the dusk, I felt that old, choking fear rise up in me again.
It was because of himthe great, hulking dog sitting square in the middle of the road, unmoving, almost statuesque. I took tiny steps backwards, keeping my eyes pinned nervously on him.
Good boy, lovely boy I murmured, barely daring to breathe, careful not to make any sudden movements.
He appeared intimidating at first glance: his frame was enormous under a tangled mass of thick, matted fur, with ears that flicked at every distant sound and dark, watchful eyes that followed my every movement. Every part of me was on edge. Ive always been afraid of dogsterrified, really, even of the tiny, fluffy ones people cradle in their arms as they stroll through Leeds. My fear started early.
I remembered vividly when I was about four, the trip out to my grans cottage in the Yorkshire Dales. Next door lived a man who raised dogsproper working breeds, not the kind you see tottering round town in jumpers. My curiosity was boundless back then, I poked at everything and wanted to touch anything that would let me. Thats all it took: one adorable puppy wandering into Grans garden. I scooped it up and, thinking myself clever, set off for the house. I hadnt taken more than a few steps before a massive dog blocked my waymum to the little pup, I presume. She didnt attack, only growled low enough to rattle my tiny ribs, baring wicked teeth. That single momentfear, paralysis, feeling tiny and utterly powerlessstayed with me, an old scar that never quite faded.
Now, years on, the old panic was back. The dog before me was huge, determined to remain right where he was. I resolved not to provoke fate; best to take a detour. I tried to appear calm as I pivoted and walked back up the road, catching myself glancing over my shoulder every few paces.
He was following me. Quiet as a shadow and never venturing too closealways about a dozen paces behind.
Clever boy, I whispered to myself as I looked back again. Why are you trailing me, hmm? Wheres your owner then? Questions chased each other around my mind, heavy and unanswered.
I caught sight of my block of flats and picked up the pace. Up the steps, fob to the door, insidesafe. I spun round just before the door closed, peering back out. There he sat, still on the pavement, calm and steady, watching as the entrance shut and I vanished from view.
Once inside, I hovered in the hallway, shoes off, shopping bag perched on the shelf. The familiar flat was reassuringquiet, save for the hum of London beyond the windows. I couldn’t resist peering through the curtain.
He was still there. The swell of relief was almost laughable. But, at last, as I watched, the dog rose, gave a faint wag of his great tail, and padded away, as if sensing I needed reassurance that he’d truly gone.
This became our new routine. Each evening, as I came home from my job at the ad agency, he would appearnever failingmaterialising from around a corner or between the lime trees, trailing gently until I reached my building. At first, he stayed well back, but as the days slipped by, he shrank the gap. One evening, I realised he was just a few feet away, padding along almost at my side.
The fear didn’t vanish overnight, but it began to loosen its grip. Gradually, I went from bracing myself for every unexpected movement to feeling quietly watchful rather than petrified. Bit by bit, I noticed other things: his pace was calm, almost gentlemanly. His eyes, once so intense, now seemed thoughtful rather than threatening.
One night, walking home beneath chestnut leaves, I felt ita curious sort of comfort knowing he was somewhere near. Maybe it marked a turning point, because then and there, I decided to grant him a name. It needed to be something strong, a little mythical.
Bran, I muttered, trying out the sound. It seemed to suit hima loyal defender straight from a storybook.
The response astonished me. The next time I said it, Bran! his head whipped round, as though he recognised himself in the word. His instant attention drew a smile from me that I couldnt suppress.
At the agency, my days were an endless fuss: morning catch-ups, chasing clients for sign-offs, fighting with printers and copy deadlines. By evening, dragging my feet home, I usually could think of little more than a cup of tea and my slippers.
But Brans company transformed my walk home. There was a strange comfort in his silent, steady presence. He never barked, never jumped up, just kept pace as though he knew precisely what I neededa gentle, unobtrusive companion.
Sometimes, I would linger and let him come closer; some days, Id even dare a longer look, meeting his gaze. Each small gesture of trust slowly melted away the old dread, making way for something newsomething like quiet companionship, rooted but shy.
One balmy evening in late September, a hectic day meant I was late leaving work, nearly eight by the time I set off. As I hurried along the tree-lined road, distracted by the ping of emails and my own tiredness, I felt the loss keenly.
Bran didnt appear.
He usually popped up from nowhere the moment I turned onto Wren Street, his mop of hair a familiar sight. Without him, the pavement felt unusually empty and chilly. Worry gnawed at mewhat if something had happened? Had his owner claimed him? Was he hurt?
The night crept in fast. No streetlights yet, just the stretch of shadows. I shrank inside my coat, thinking how much safer I felt with Bran plodding quietly beside me.
It was near the crossing that a mans voice, mocking and close, jolted me.
All right, love, wherere you off to this late on? he called from the shadows.
My heart thudded painfully. I sped up, desperately hoping to seem braver than I felt.
Oi, slow down! Whats the rush? Scared? He was closer. I sensed him behind me.
He grabbed my arm, grip fierce and unkind. Im talking to you. Dont like being ignored.
I struggled, tried to pull free. Let me go or Ill shout! My voice was thin, but tried for firmness.
He only gripped tighter, voice slurring. Go on then. See what happens.
In the low light, I glimpsed something dull and metallic flicker in his free handa knife. Panic shrilled in my head. I cursed not leaving work earlier, cursed the empty street, the closed-up shops, the lack of a single passer-by.
What could I do? Any sudden move, and I risked that blade. Trying to reason with him seemed pointless; the smell of beer coming off him was enough to know his thoughts werent steady. Helplessness threatened to send me under.
Then, abrupt as thunder, an enormous, ferocious bark shattered the silence. The man whirled roundhis grip melted away. Just like that, Bran was there, no longer gentle but a force of nature, launching himself at the man.
Get off, you bloody beast! howled the attacker, thrashing as Bran clamped strong jaws on his wrist.
The knife skittered away. I kicked it, hard, into the shrubs.
Let him go, Bran, but dont let him escape. Im calling the police, I gasped out, my voice shaking but determined.
Bran released his grip but didnt move away. He sat, just a step away, baring bloodied teeth and watching the man with cold determination. If the man so much as twitched, Brans growl reminded him not to try.
Sirens appeared in what felt like seconds. Officers bundled the man off in cuffs. Only then did Bran leave his post, shambling to my side, where I had slumped on the pavement, knees drawn up, trembling uncontrollably.
He pressed his great, shaggy head to my knees and let out a heavy sigh. There was such warmth and understanding in that small gesture I couldnt help but cry, my tears blotching the wiry hair beneath my fingers as I hugged him.
Thank you, I whispered, fingers lost in his unruly fur. Thank you for being here.
From that night onwards, everything changed. I couldnt imagine my world without Bran. He moved in with me and settled into our flat as if it had always been his. Every evening, he waited at the door, his gaze ever watchful, his big shape always somewhere close. He was more than a pet; he was my steadfast guardian, an ever-silent, ever-present companion who knew, somehow, when I needed comfort.
The jitters still occasionally returneda slammed door, a loud bangbut I never felt alone. He was there, the dog who had proven, without a moments hesitation, that he would stand between me and harm.
* * *
The early days took some adjustment for him, I admit. He crept through the flat, sniffing everything, ears low with suspicion. The new scentsfaint traces of washing powder, the polish on the dining table, the leftover scent of morning toastall seemed to confuse him.
But, slowly, he began to claim his places. First, the patch by the front door, then, eventually, the spot near the window in my living room, where he could peer down at the tide of daily life belowpigeons pecking, taxis rattling by, the play of amber streetlights on wet tarmac. Watching all this seemed to soothe him.
I tried to make our home truly his. He got a plush dog bed with a rim to rest his chin, a heavy bowl for water and food, a knotted rope, a rubber bone, and a soft toy fox. At first, he eyed them all with suspicion, but eventually, he started to nudge them with a paw or clamped them gently in his jaws, even seemed to enjoy a lazy game when he thought no one was watching.
In time, he brightened up, waiting for the sound of my shoes on the stairs each evening and springing up whenever he heard me fiddling at the lock. Soon we made evening visits to the park a routine. Wed stroll through the dew-speckled grass, Bran sniffing at every bush, occasionally cocking his ears at blackbirds singing their night songs. These walks became the best part of my day; fear of dogsat least this dogvanished little by little. With Bran at my side, I felt safer, quieter inside, stronger.
He seemed to know when things were too much. If I sat, exhausted, on the sofa after another relentless workday, hed climb up and rest his great head on my lap. It was then I realised I had come to love him, completely, surprisingly.
One morning, though, I noticed Bran seemed off. Normally, he greeted me with a flurry of enthusiasm, but now he barely lifted his head, choosing instead to pad slowly to his dish but then turning away from it.
I crouched beside him, scanning his face. His fur looked duller, his eyes weary, movements sluggish.
Oh, Bran, whats wrong? I asked aloud, stroking his back.
He only heaved a sigh and dropped his head to his huge paws, looking altogether forlorn. I rang the vet at once.
The vet visited later that day. Examination, thermometer, and worried faces. Hes got a mild infectionmost likely something picked up wandering on the streets, poor lad. Its nothing too bad, but youll need to keep him on medicine for a bit.
What do I need to do? I asked, barely keeping the worry from my voice.
Stick to the special diet, two tabs a day, and make sure he drinks. He should be himself again in a week.
I followed every instruction. Bran got warm chicken and rice, tablets hidden within a cube of cheddar or ham, and plenty of water. He understood, tooit was there in his grateful eyes whenever he finished a meal or took his medicine, sometimes even offering a lick to my hand as if to say, Ill be all right.
Sure enough, he perked up, first showing curiosity for his toys and then pulling at the lead for walks. After a week, he bounced to the door to meet me, tail wagging, grunting with joy. I beamed at his improvement, utterly relieved.
Life soon found its rhythmthe comfort of routine: morning food, evening walks, snatched hours on the sofa together while the kettle hissed and the city outside grew quiet. I did my research, learned what treats were safe and what to avoid, and started cooking simple suppers just for him. Our days developed a gentle structure, one I found deeply satisfying.
On a whim, I signed us up for a dog training class at the local rec centre. Bran proved bright as a buttonlearned sit, down, and come in record time, drawing a rare grin from the trainer, who said hed rarely seen such eagerness in a rescue. Id go back over his lessons each evening, proud of the bond wed built.
Weekends meant long rambles across the green at Kennington Park, where Bran dashed through the grass after tennis balls, always glancing back to check I was watching. He made new friends with the other dogs, nudging at them gently, and chased with joyful abandon. Id sit on a nearby bench, smiling at his happiness and feeling a surer sense of home than Id ever had.
But life will always have its surprises.
It was a Wednesday. Tired beyond sense after a bruising day at work, I wearily climbed my steps, dreaming of tea and a paperback. At my doorway stood a stranger.
He leaned casually against the brickwork, his eyes following me. When I drew closer, he stepped forward, polite but firm.
Excuse me, he said. Are you by any chance Emily?
On guard, I nodded. Thats me. And you are?
My names Oliver. I think you have my dog.
The words hung in the cold night air. Shock pricked at me and I stared, trying to process. Your dog? But why was he living on the streets then?
Oliver shrugged, tucking his hands in his coat pockets, suddenly looking tired. Long story. I work oil rigsgone for six months at a time. Left Bran with my mate, thought hed manage. But he didn’tcouldnt cope, and just… let him go out on his own. When I came back, I looked everywhere: posters, asking the neighbours. No luck. Then I saw him with youhe looked at peace, happy. I could hardly believe it.
He fell silent, staring at his shoes. Then, I thought Id want to bring him home, but… its clear youre what he needs now. Hes settled. I just wanted to know he was okay. To thank you.
Relief overwhelmed me, mingling uneasily with something elsegratitude, uncertainty, empathy for this gentle stranger. Thank you for telling me, I managed. I promise Ill take good care of him.
He smiled one last time, nodded, and wandered off down the street, vanishing into the mysterious London night.
As I stepped inside, Brans bark echoed out from behind the front door; my guardian, my friend, waiting to welcome me home.
