13October2025
Dear Diary,
The night shift at the town constabulary started with the same irritating buzz of the ancient rotary phone. Bloody hell, that dog again! muttered Constable Peter Hargreaves as he slammed the receiver down, the hardcapped handset clattering on the desk. Sergeant Margaret Doyle, weve just got another call about a dog in the woods. Third one this morning, mind you!
Sergeant Doyle looked up from her paperwork, eyebrows knit. What dog now?
Three days running theyve been ringing. Folks say a stray pooch is lurking by the edge of the forest, barking madly. It grabs at peoples coats, whines, and almost drives everyone round the bend!
I frowned. After fifteen years on the force Id learned to trust my gut, and this time it was telling me something wasnt right. Tom, I called my new partner, lets have a look.
Tom scoffed. Come off it, Mabel. Its just a dogmaybe rabid, maybe just a nuisance.
Or maybe its more than that.
The thought took me back to a case from two decades ago, when my younger brother Billy vanished on his way home from school. We searched for three days, the whole department, dogs, volunteersall of it, only to find him far too late. That memory sharpened my resolve. Gear up, I said, well see whats really happening.
Within twenty minutes our battered Vauxhall Viva chugged to a halt at the fringe of the New Forest, a plume of dust rising from the broken track. The place looked straight out of a nightmaregnarled oaks with twisted limbs reaching toward a grey sky, deadwood tangled on the ground like skeletal fingers. Black, rotting stumps jutted out of the underbrush, and even in the bright afternoon the thorny brambles cast deep shadows. Local mushroompickers, who normally werent afraid to wander into the thickest parts, kept well clear of this patch.
Whats this dog you speak of? Tom asked, eyeing the surroundings with a skeptical glance.
Almost on cue a bark echoed from behind a clump of trees, and a large, shaggy dog burst onto the clearing. He was dirty, his fur matted, but the shape of a oncedomestic animal was obvious. The moment he saw us he froze, then lunged forward, tail thumping wildly.
Easy, easy, lad, I crouched down. Whats the trouble?
The dog whined, clamped his teeth onto my jacket sleeve, and tugged toward the deeper woods.
You dont intend to go back? he seemed to ask.
I am, I replied, stepping forward. He wants to show us something.
Understanding that we were on his side, the pooch barked happily and trotted ahead, constantly glancing back as if making sure we were still following. We tramped through the mud for about twenty minutes, the forest growing denser, the ground sucking at our boots. Tom stumbled over a root a couple of times, muttering curses, but kept pace.
Suddenly the dog halted and gave a low growl.
What now? I halted.
Between the trees ahead loomed a structure halfcovered in moss and grass, barely discernible until we were within a few metres. It looked like an old shed, abandoned and overgrown.
Stay here, I ordered Tom, then moved forward cautiously, the dog never straying more than a foot from my heels.
The door was reinforced with a heavy iron lock. A faint, rattling sound drifted from inside.
Tom! Come quick! I shouted.
The hinges were rusted through, so we pried the door open. A stale, fetid air slammed into my nostrils. When my eyes adjusted, I saw a thin teenager huddled on a grimy mattress, surrounded by mouldy rags. He was filthy, his cheeks hollow, eyes sunken. Rough rope had chafed his wrists until they bled. He blinked at the sudden light, his gaze a mix of animal fear and a flicker of hope. A hoarse cough escaped his throat.
Who are you? I asked, pulling my pocket knife to cut the bindings.
Art Art the boy rasped.
Art Art? I repeated, my voice softening. Art youre Art Thompson? The lad who went missing three days ago?
The boy gave a weak nod.
Wed received a report that morning about a fifteenyearold boy whod disappeared after school. His mother, a single parent working two jobs, had been frantic.
Tom, get backup and an ambulance, I instructed, helping Art sit up. You hold on, lad. Well get you out of here.
The dog, who had been silent until now, stiffened. His fur bristled along the neck and a low rumble escaped his throat. In the next heartbeat a branch snapped as someone fled through the underbrush.
Get on the ground! I yelled, pulling my service pistol.
The dog bolted away, his ears perked. We heard a scream, the thud of a body hitting the ground, and a string of curses. When Tom and I pushed through the tangled foliage to the source, the sight that met us was like something out of a crime novel. A hulking man in a battered leather jacketone of those characters youd cross the street to avoidlay facedown in a pile of lastyears leaves. The dog sat on his chest, fur standing on end, a guttural snarl tearing from his throat that made Sergeant Doyles hair stand on end even through the radio. In that instant the stray turned into a guardian, a protector with the heart of a wolf.
Stay calm, Jack, I whispered, using the name that had popped into my mind. Well handle this.
The dog obeyed, stepping back but never taking his eyes off the fallen man.
The scene dissolved into a blur of flashing lights. An ambulance, a police forensic unit, and a handful of detectives arrived. The man, identified as Victor Clarke, immediately confessed. Turns out he was a professional kidnapper, operating for ransom, preying on singleparent families. The exact sum hed hoped for never mattered; he was simply a predator.
A week later I was back in my modest kitchen, the walls lined with faded yellow papered panels, sipping lukewarm tea from my favourite chipped mug while scrolling through the local news on my phone. The front page of the *Herald* bore a bold headline: Heroic Dog Helps Crack ChildAbduction Case! Below it a photograph of Jacka nowclean, wellgroomed poochlooking dignified and alert.
Whats it like, hero? I mused, scratching behind Jacks ear as he rested his head on the sofa. Hows the new life treating you?
He licked my hand and nudged his head onto my knees.
People say coincidences dont exist. Perhaps that meeting was meant to befor a woman who, fifteen years ago, couldnt save her brother, and for a wandering dog who ended up saving another boy.
You know, I said, stroking the warm, shaggy head, miracles sometimes turn up when you least expect them.
Jack gave a contented sigh, as if hed known all along.
Lesson learned: the smallest companions can guide us toward the biggest truths.
