**Diary Entry**
Mum and I were walking home from the market when I spotted him first.
He wasnt curled up under the bench like tired or stray dogs usually dono, he sat right on the bus stop seat, straight-backed, calm, and watchful, almost like a person. In the crisp winter light, he squinted at the road, occasionally lifting his head to scan the passersby as if searching for someone. No barking, no restless pacingjust waiting. It was strange almost human.
Mum, look! I tugged her coat sleeve. A puppy!
He was scrawny, big-eared, a little clumsylike a gangly teenager still growing into his limbs. But his eyestired yet brightheld something deeper, something words couldnt capture. You just *felt* it.
Mum sighed, eyeing him warily. Dont touch him. Probably full of fleas. No jabs, either. And we cant take him on the bus. If we leave, hell wander off.
But bus after bus came and went, and he stayed putshifting his weight, glancing around, never moving far. As if waiting. Choosing. And when his gaze met mine, it was like hearing, *You came for me, didnt you?*
Mum, *please* I hadnt yet learned to beg like an adult. Just wide eyes, a tightening throat. Hell freeze out here.
She pressed her lips together, looked up at the grey sky, then back at him. Finally, she exhaled. If no one takes him by tonight, we will. But hes *your* responsibility. If Dads cross, *you* explain.
I nodded like a life depended on it. Rushing back, I wrapped my scarf around him like a blanket. He didnt resistjust sighed, childlike, and nuzzled into my coat.
At home, he ate quietly, desperately, every crumb like a last chance. Then he curled up on an old jumper and slept*finally*. As if thinking, *I can rest now.*
Whatll we call our hero? Mum asked, rinsing his bowl.
I paused. Then it hit me. Todays April 12th.
And?
Churchill, I said.
Mum raised an eyebrow. After the PM?
After the *first*. *My* first. And a proper hero.
She smiled, but the name stuck. Churchill it was.
It wasnt easy at first. The cat hissed and hid under the dresser. Gran complained about dog smell. Dad, away on business, grumbled over the phone about allergies and us losing our minds. I listened, noddedand didnt budge.
Churchill was perfect. Barely barked, never chewed shoes. Just stayed. Calm. As if knowing we were there was enough.
He grew. His ears got bigger, his legs lankierawkward but endearing. Hed wait by the door when I came home from school, not jumping, just studying my face as if asking, *How was your day?*
He *knew*. When I was ill, hed lie beside me, unmoving. If I cried, hed bring his ball*Dont mope, play*. If I argued with someone, hed rest his head on my lap. Just *there*.
That winter was bitterblizzards, icy winds, the river behind school frozen solid. Everyone skated there: kids, adults. Churchill and I went almost daily. Id toss snowballs; hed chase them, skidding on the ice. Pure joy.
Then came *that* day. Alonemy mate had a fever, Mum was late. Snow fell thick, muffling everything but my footsteps. Churchill darted ahead, weaving through bushes.
I stepped onto the river. The ice looked smooth, strong.
A *crack*.
No time to scream.
The world gave way. Water swallowed me. Cold punched my ribs. Panic. My hands slippednothing to grip. Ice crumbling.
Then*a tug*.
My coat jerked. Churchill had my sleeve in his teeth, pulling with everything he had. Slipping, scrambling, *not letting go*.
How we got outI dont recall. Just bloodied elbows, shuddering cold, and him, soaked and shaking, draped over me like a shield.
Then paramedics, Mum, hospital. Mild frostbite for me; for Churchill, infections, exhaustion.
We survived.
A week later, home again, he met me at the door. Pressed his nose to my stomachthen flopped beside me. No words needed.
Hes not just a dog. Hes my universe. My Churchill.
A year passed. We moved. New flat, new doornew sign: *Warning: Hero lives here.*
I dont go near the river anymore. Not winter, not summer. If I try, he blocks me, eyes firm but not angry.
Sometimes he sits on the balcony, staring at the sky. For ages. As if searching.
Counting stars, Churchill? I tease.
He doesnt answer. Just rests his head on my knee.
And its warm.
So warm.
Always.
If youve got a story about *your* Churchill, share it below. And stay tunedmore heartwarming tales await.
