When Mum and I were walking home from the market, I spotted him first.
He wasnt curled up under the bench like tired or stray dogs usually dono, he was sitting right on the bus stop seat itself, like a person. Calm, confident, watchful. Squinting in the snow-glare, he stared at the road, sometimes lifting his head to scan the passersby, as if searching for someone. He didnt dart around or bark or beg for attentionjust sat there, waiting. It was strange almost human.
“Mum, look!” I tugged her sleeve. “A puppy!”
He was scrawny, all ears and awkward limbs, like a gangly teenager who hadnt grown into himself. But it was his eyes that got metired but not dull. There was something deep in them. The kind of thing you cant put into words, but you just *know*.
Mum gave him a once-over and sighed.
“Dont touch him. Hes probably got fleas. No jabs either. And we cant take him on the bus. If we leave, hell wander off eventually.”
But the bus came, then anotherand he was still there. Shifting from paw to paw, glancing around, but never leaving his spot. Like he was waiting. Like he was *choosing* someone. And when he looked at meI swear I heard it: *”You came for me, didnt you?”*
“Mum, please” I wasnt above begging. Just stared at her, eyes welling up, chest tight. “Hell freeze out here.”
She bit her lip. Glanced up at the grey sky. Then back at him. Finally, she let out a slow breath.
“If no one takes him by tonight, well bring him home. But hes *your* responsibility. If Dad kicks off, *you* explain it to him.”
I nodded like it was life or death. Rushed back, wrapped him in my scarf like a blanket. He didnt fight it. Just exhaledsmall, quiet, like a kidand buried his nose in my coat.
At home, he ate in silence. Fast. *Desperate*. Every crumb like his last chance.
Then he curled up on an old jumper and fell asleep. Like he finally thought: *Okay. I can stop now.*
“Whatre we calling our hero?” Mum asked, putting the empty bowl away.
I thought. Then it hit me.
“Todays April 12th.”
“And?”
“Churchill,” I said.
Mum raised an eyebrow. “After the war leader?”
“After the *first*. *My* first. And a proper hero.”
She smiled, but the name stuck. Churchill stayed Churchill.
At first, it wasnt easy. The cat hissed from under the cupboard. Gran complained about “dog smell.” Dadaway on businessrang up fuming about his allergies and how wed all lost the plot. I just nodded and held my ground.
Churchill was perfect. Barely barked. Never chewed shoes. Just stayed. *There*. Like knowing we existed was enough.
He grew. His ears got even bigger, his legs lanky. Awkward but endearing. When I got home from school, hed wait by the doornot jumping, just looking at me like: *How was your day?*
He *knew*. If I was ill, hed lie beside me, unmoving. If I cried, hed nudge his ball at me*Dont mope, play.* If I was angry, hed rest his head in my lap. Just *there*.
That winter was brutal. Blizzards, ice thick enough to skate on the river behind the schooleveryone did. Me and Churchill went most days. Id chuck snowballs; hed skid after them, tail wagging.
That day, I went alone. My mate was sick; Mum was late. Snow fell in fat flakes, silence swallowing everything but my footsteps.
Churchill trotted ahead, weaving through bushes. I edged onto the icesmooth, cracked in places, but solid.
One step. Another. Then
*Crack.*
No time to scream.
The world dropped. Water swallowed me. Cold punched my ribs. Thrashing, slippingno grip, no way up.
Then*a yank.*
My coat. *Teeth.* Churchill.
Dragging me, scrabbling at the ice. Slipping, panting, *not letting go.*
How we got outdunno. Just remember bloodied elbows, shaking, and him pressed against me, wet and shivering. Like he was scared to lose me again.
Ambulance. Mum. Doctors. Mild hypothermia for me. For him? Cuts, exhaustion, infection.
We got patched up.
A week later, I walked in. Churchill met me at the door. Nosed my stomachthen flopped beside me. No words needed.
After that? He wasnt just a dog. He was my universe. My Churchill.
A year passed. We moved. New flat, new door, new sign: *”Warning: Hero lives here.”*
He wont let me near the river now. Not ever. Blocks my path, stares me down. Not angry. Just certain.
Sometimes he sits on the balcony, watching the sky. For ages. Like hes 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 Churchill of your owntell me below. And stick aroundplenty more heart stuff coming your way.
