Granddad, Look! — Lily Pressed Her Nose to the Window. — A Puppy!

Granddad, look! Gwen pressed her nose to the window. A dog!

A mangy mutt scurried under the gate black, filthy, ribs sticking out.

This blasted mongrel again, grumbled George Whitaker, pulling on his rubber boots. Its been three days now. Off with it! He waved a stick. The animal jumped back but didnt bolt. It stopped about five yards away and stared, just stared.

Dont chase her, Granddad! Gwen clutched his sleeve. Shes probably hungry and cold!

Mind your own business! the old man snapped. Shell bring fleas and disease. Get out of here!

The dog tucked its tail and shuffled off, but as soon as George disappeared behind the door, it turned and came back.

Gwen had been living with her grandfather for six months, ever since her parents perished in the hills. George took her in, though he never liked children. He was used to the quiet, to his own routine.

Now there was a girl who woke at night, crying and asking, Granddad, when will Mum and Dad come back? How do you explain that they never will? The old man only muttered and turned his back. Both of them suffered, but there was nowhere else to go.

After lunch, while George dozed in front of the telly, Gwen slipped out into the yard, a bowl of soup leftovers in her hands.

Come here, Biscuit, she whispered. Thats what Ive named you. Lovely name, isnt it?

The dog crept forward cautiously, lapped the bowl clean, then lay down, resting its head on its paws, watching her with a grateful, loyal stare.

Youre a good girl, Gwen petted her. Really good.

From that day on Biscuit never left the house. She guarded the gate, saw Gwen off to school and welcomed her back. Whenever George stepped outside, his voice echoed across the lane:

Not you again! How many times must I say!

But Biscuit had learned: the man barked, but he didnt bite.

Neighbour Sam Jenkins, smoking by the fence, watched the whole circus and said, Youre being hard on her, George.

Whats it to me! I need a dog like a toothache! George retorted.

Maybe, Sam lingered, God didnt send her here for nothing.

George only snorted.

A week passed. Biscuit kept her post at the gate, rain or frost. Gwen still slipped food to her in secret, and George pretended not to notice.

Granddad, can we let Biscuit into the hallway? Itll be warmer there, Gwen pleaded at dinner.

No, and no more of that! the old man thumped the table. Animals have no place inside this house!

But she

No buts! Ive had enough of your whims!

Gwen pursed her lips and fell silent. That night George lay awake, unable to sleep. In the morning he peeked out the window. Biscuit was curled up on the snow outside. Shell die soon, he thought, a sick feeling rising in his chest.

On Saturday Gwen went to the pond to skate. Biscuit, as usual, trotted behind her. The girl laughed, spun on the ice, while the dog sat on the bank watching.

Watch me go! Gwen shouted and headed for the centre of the pond.

The ice gave a thin crack.

Then a shatter.

Gwen plunged under. The water was black and icy. She fought to surface, screaming, her cries swallowed by the splashes.

Biscuit froze for a heartbeat, then bolted toward the house.

George was chopping wood when he heard a frantic bark. He turned and saw the dog tearing around the yard, whimpering, lunging at his trousers, pulling him toward the gate.

Whats the matter, you daft thing? he muttered, bewildered.

Biscuit wouldnt settle. She kept lunging, snapping at his clothes, eyes full of panic.

Gwen! George shouted and chased after the dog.

Biscuit raced forward, glancing back as if checking whether he was keeping up, then sprinted toward the pond. George saw the dark hole in the ice and heard faint splutters.

Hold on! he bellowed, grabbing a long branch. Hold on, my girl!

He scrambled across the cracking ice, which groaned and bent but held. He seized Gwens coat and dragged her to the bank. Biscuit stayed close, barking encouragement.

When they pulled her out, Gwen was blueskinned. George rubbed snow on her, blew on her face, and prayed.

Granddad, she whispered finally, wheres Biscuit?

The dog sat shivering beside them.

Shes here, George croaked. Right here.

Something shifted in him after that. He no longer shouted at the dog, though he still kept her out of the house.

Granddad, why? Gwen sniffed. She saved me!

Saved, saved. Theres still no room for her, he snapped.

Why not?

Because thats how I run things.

He grew angry with himself, though he couldnt explain why. He thought he was doing the right thing; order was order. Yet his stomach felt as though it were being scraped.

Sam stopped by for tea, the two men sitting at the kitchen table, cigarettes between them.

Heard what happened? Sam asked cautiously.

Yeah, George grunted.

Good dog, clever.

Sometimes, George replied.

You ought to look after her.

George shrugged. We look after her. We dont chase her away.

And where does she sleep at night? Sam asked.

Out here, in the cold. Is she a dog or not?

Sam shook his head. Youre odd, George. You saved a girls life and now youre being ungrateful.

I owe nothing to that mutt! George snapped. Feed her, dont beat her, thats enough!

Owe nothing? And what about being human? Sam pressed.

Being human is loving people, not stray dogs!

Sam fell silent, knowing the argument was pointless, but his eyes held a reproach.

February was a vicious month. Snowdrifts piled up as if winter wanted to prove who ruled the land. George spent his days clearing paths, only to find waistdeep snow again by morning.

Biscuit stayed at the gate, growing thin, her coat ragged, eyes dim, but never leaving her post.

Granddad, Gwen tugged at his sleeve, look at her. Shes barely alive.

She chose to sit there herself, George waved her off. No one forced her.

But she

Enough! the old man roared. How many times must I hear the same thing? Im fed up with this dog!

Gwens cheeks flushed with hurt and she fell silent. Later, as George read the newspaper, she whispered, Biscuit hasnt been seen today.

So? he grunted without looking up.

Shes been gone all day. Maybe shes ill?

Maybe shes finally gone. Thats where she belongs.

Granddad! How can you say that?

How else? he put the paper down, meeting her eyes. Shes not ours. Shes a stray. We owe her nothing.

We do owe her, Gwen said softly. She saved me, and we didnt even give her a warm place.

No place! George slammed his fist on the table. This isnt a zoo!

Gwen sniffed and fled to her room. George remained at the table, the newspaper suddenly uninteresting.

That night a blizzard hit so hard the house seemed to sway. The wind howled through the chimney, windows rattled, snow battered the panes. George tossed in bed, unable to sleep.

Dog weather, he muttered, cursing himself. What does it matter to me?

But it mattered, and he knew it.

By dawn the wind had died. He rose, brewed a cup of tea, and looked out. The yard was buried to the windows. The path had vanished, a lone bench stood like a solitary sentinel. And by the gate

Something dark jutted out of the snow.

Probably just rubbish the wind swept in, he thought, but his heart sank.

He threw on his greatcoat, slipped his boots on, and trudged out. The snow was deep, kneedeep in places. He reached the gate and stopped.

In the drifts lay Biscuit, motionless. Snow covered her almost entirely, leaving only her ears and the tip of her tail exposed.

Dead, George whispered, feeling something crack inside him. He brushed the snow away. The dog was barely breathing, a weak, wheezy sound, eyes shut.

Ah, you naughty thing, why didnt you go away? he muttered. Biscuit shivered at his voice, tried to lift her head but lacked the strength.

George stood watching, then, To hell with it, he decided, and lifted the limp animal into his arms. She was light, mostly bone and fur, but still warm.

Hang on, he mumbled, carrying her back to the house. He set her down in the hallway, then on an old blanket by the stove.

Granddad? Gwen appeared in her nightgown at the doorway. Whats happened?

She froze out there, George stammered. Shell warm up now.

Gwen rushed to the dog. Shes alive? Is she alive?

Yes, alive. Get her some milk, warm.

Now! she darted to the stove.

George crouched beside Biscuit, stroking her head, thinking, What sort of man have I become? Ive driven her to near death, and still she stays.

Biscuit opened her eyes a fraction, looked at him with gratitude, and a lump rose in Georges throat.

Milks ready! Gwen placed a bowl next to the dog.

Biscuit lapped the milk slowly, then again, then once more. George and Gwen watched, marveling as if a miracle unfolded.

By lunch Biscuit was sitting upright. By evening she padded around the kitchen on trembling legs, and George would glance at her, muttering, Its temporary, understand? When shes stronger shell go outside again!

But Gwen only smiled. She saw George slipping her the better pieces of meat, covering her with extra blankets, petting her when he thought no one was looking.

Will never chase her out again, she thought.

The next morning George rose early. Biscuit lay on the rug near the stove, staring at him intently.

Well, youve come back to life, he growled, pulling on his trousers. There you are.

The dog wagged her tail cautiously, as if testing whether shed be thrown out again.

After breakfast George put on his coat and stepped outside. He walked along the fence, cigarette in hand, and glanced at the old doghouse beside the barn, long abandoned.

Lily! he called into the house. Come here!

The girl darted out, Biscuit trailing her. The dog kept close to Gwen, no longer eyeing George.

Look, he said, pointing at the shack. The roofs caved in, the walls are rotten. We should fix it.

Why, Granddad? Gwen asked.

Because its useless sitting empty. Its a mess.

He dragged planks, a hammer, nails from the barn and set to work, swearing at every stubborn board and stray nail. Biscuit sat nearby, watching, seeming to understand why he was laboring.

By lunchtime the doghouse sported a fresh roof. George spread an old blanket inside, set out bowls for water and food.

Done, he said, wiping his brow.

Granddad, is that for Biscuit? Gwen asked softly.

For who else? he muttered. She doesnt belong inside, but she needs a proper place out theredogstyle, you know.

Gwen threw her arms around him. Thank you, Granddad! Thank you!

Alright, alright, he waved her off. Dont get all soft. And rememberthis is only temporary until we find her a proper owner.

Deep down he knew no one would ever come. Biscuit now belonged only to them.

Just then Sam stopped by, looked at the newly repaired shack, the dog, and Gwens happy face, and grinned.

See, George? I told you God sent her for a reason.

Leave your God out of it, George snapped. Its just a pity, thats all.

Sure, a pity, Sam agreed. Your hearts good, you just keep it hidden.

George wanted to argue but didnt. He watched Biscuit sniff the new shelter, Gwen patting her head, and realised they were a family nowimperfect, perhaps strange, but a family.

Alright, Biscuit, he said quietly. This is your home now.

The dog looked at him for a long moment, then settled down beside the shack, keeping an eye on the house door where her people lived.