**Diary Entry 12th April**
When Mum and I were walking back from the market, I noticed him first.
He wasnt curled up under the bench like tired or stray dogs usually dono, he sat right on the bus stop seat. Like a personcalm, sure of himself, watchful. Squinting in the frosty daylight, he stared at the road, occasionally lifting his head to scan the passersby as if searching for someone. He didnt dart about, didnt bark, didnt approach anyonejust sat there, waiting. It was strange almost human.
“Mum, look!” I tugged her sleeve. “A puppy!”
He was scrawny, big-eared, a bit clumsylike a teenager still learning to control his long limbs. But it was his eyes that caught me. Tired, but not lifeless. There was something deep in them, something words couldnt describe but you felt it straightaway.
Mum gave him a glance and sighed. “Dont touch him. Hes probably got fleas. No jabs, either. We cant take him on the bus. If we leave, hell wander off eventually.”
But bus after bus cameand he stayed put. Shifting from paw to paw, glancing around, but never moving. As if he was waiting. Choosing. And when he looked at meI swear I heard it: *”You came for me, didnt you?”*
“Mum, *please*…” I hadnt learned to beg properly yet. Just stared, eyes wet, throat tight. “Hell freeze…”
Mum pressed her lips together. Looked up at the grey sky. Then back at the pup. And finally exhaled. “If no one takes him by evening, well bring him home. But hes *your* responsibility. If Dads cross, you explain it to him.”
I nodded like it was a matter of life and death. Rushed back, unwound my scarf, and bundled him up like a blanket. He didnt resist. Just sighedsoft, childlikeand nuzzled into my coat.
At home, he ate quietly, fast, *desperate*. Not for joyfor survival. Every crumb, every scraplike it was his last chance.
Then he curled up on an old jumper and slept. As if he could finally *stop*. No more running, hoping, clinging. Just rest.
“Whatll we call our hero?” Mum asked, putting the empty bowl away.
I thought. Then it hit me.
“Todays April 12th.”
“So?”
“Churchill,” I said.
Mum raised a brow. “After the *war*?”
“After the *first*. The first who mattered. *My* hero.”
She smiled, but the name stuck. Churchill stayed Churchill.
It wasnt easy at first. The cat hissed from the doorway and hid under the wardrobe. Gran announced the house now “smelt like a kennel.” Dad, away on business, ranted over the phone about his allergies and how wed all lost our minds. I listened, noddedand didnt give in.
Churchill behaved almost *too* well. Barely barked, never demanded attention, didnt chew shoes. He just stayed near me. Always. Quietly. As if knowing we were there was enough.
He grew. His ears got bigger, his legs lanky, all anglesbut still endearing. When I came home from school, hed wait by the doorno jumping, no fuss, just looking up as if to ask, *”How was your day?”*
He *knew* my moods. If I was ill, hed lie beside me, unmoving. If I cried, hed bring his ball*”Dont mope, play with me.”* If I argued with someone, hed press his head into my lap. Just *there*.
That winter was bitter. Blizzards, hard frosts, the river behind school frozen solideveryone skated there: kids, adults. Churchill and I went nearly every day. Id toss snowballs; hed chase, skidding on the ice. It was brilliant.
That day, I went alone. My mate was poorly; Mum was late from work. Snow fell thick, silence all aroundjust the crunch of my steps.
Churchill trotted ahead, weaving through shrubs. I neared the river. The ice looked smooth, beautiful, a little crackedbut sturdy.
One step. Then another. Then*crack*.
No time to scream.
Everything gave way. Water swallowed me. Cold punched my chest. Panic. My hands slippednothing to grip. Ice crumbling. Every part of me screaming. No idea which way was out.
Then*a jerk*.
Someone yanked my coat.
I turned my head. *Churchill*.
Teeth clenched in my sleeve, pulling with everything he had. Slipping, scramblingbut *not letting go*. Tugging, dragging. Barking, whining*never stopping*.
How we got out, I dont remember. Just bloodied elbows, shaking limbsand him beside me. Soaked, shivering, wrapped around me like he feared Id vanish.
Then paramedics, Mum, doctors. Me to hospital, him to the vet. Mild frostbite for me. Cuts, exhaustion for him.
They saved us.
A week later, I came home. Churchill met me at the door. Pressed his nose to my stomachthen lay down beside me. No words needed. Everything was clear.
After that, he wasnt just a dog. He was my *universe*. My Churchill.
A year passed. We moved. New flat, new doornow with a sign: *”Beware: Hero Inside.”*
He wont let me near the river. Not in winter, not in summer. Blocks my path, stares me down. Not angryjust *certain*.
Sometimes he sits on the balcony, watching the sky. For hours. Like hes searching for something.
“Counting stars again, Churchill?” I laugh.
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 stick aroundplenty more soul-warmers coming your way.
