“What are you doing in my house?”  Allison thought she had heard something at the back door.  To her surprise, a scraggy brown dog limped into her kitchen.  “Where did you come from?”.  He sat in front of her, his brown eyes pleading.  Her first instinct was to put a bowl of water down in front of him.  He eyed it cautiously, then back at her.  “Go on, have a drink”.  She noticed the effort he made to move towards the water, but he lapped it up like a man lost in the desert.  She watched him.  She thought she saw blood on his neck.  Allison moved closer, but jumped back as he turned his head abruptly, fear in his eyes. “I’d better wait a while. Give him time” she thought.  She was jaded after all the shopping, parched for a cup of tea.  As she sat with the mug in her hand, it occurred to her, the poor dog must have been thrown over the back fence.  There was no collar, and the cut on his neck may have come from struggling on a rope. She couldn’t make out what breed he was, probably a mongrel, medium sized, his ribs clearly visible.  His leg seemed hurt.  After drinking the water, he lay on his side, on the warm tiles where the sun shone through from the garden.  “I’ll take him to the vet when Jim comes from work” she thought.  “He looks exhausted”.  Alison had never had a dog while growing up.  Her mother had a fear of them and always told her to keep away, when she wanted to pet them.  Her busy job involved traveling abroad from time to time, which made having a pet impractical.  Jim wasn’t bothered either way.

Later that evening, Jim carried the dog out to the car.  The vet gave the little interloper an injection and dabbed something on his wound.  The vet’s hands gently moved up and down his body and legs.  There was no sign of serious damage.  They were told to gradually increase his feed and leave plenty of fresh water down for him.  Alison left a description at the police station, put a notice in the local paper and contacted a few animal welfare centres.  There was no response to any of her enquiries.  As she was on a break from work, she bought a collar and lead, and enjoyed taking him out for walks.  It didn’t take long for Gypsy, as they called him, to become part of their lives.  He sat at their feet at night as they watched television.  Now and again, he looked up at them, as if checking that all was okay, then he’d flop back down again. Alison noticed the odd twitch from his paws, as if he was dreaming.  He had a gentle temperament, except when there was a knock on the front door, or the postman came up the path delivering mail.

One evening, Alison took Gypsy to the seafront for a walk.  The light was fading when they headed home.  She decided to take a short-cut as a soft drizzle descended. Suddenly, from behind, she was pushed to the ground, ending face down on the path, letting go of the lead.   In a split second, Gypsy took off after the hooded youth who had knocked her down.  She called “Gypsy, come back” as she painfully got to her feet, but he ignored her.  Gypsy had jumped the youth and had him pinned to the ground.  The youth lay curled up in a ball, shielding himself from Gypsy’s snarls and fangs. Alison’s handbag lay on the ground beside him.  She took her mobile phone from her pocket and called the police.

Allison lay on the sofa a few days later, Gypsy’s head on her lap.  Her knees were still sore.  She thought back on the lucky day Gypsy walked into her kitchen, and into their lives.