One late November morning, the first snow fell. That same day, a dog wandered into the workshop where Emily worked—sleek black fur, medium-sized, with the sharp face of a collie, a white collar around her neck, and a small patch of white on her back.
No one knew where she had come from. Perhaps she had strayed in from the village. But Andrew, one of the lorry drivers, laid an old jumper in the corner by the warehouse for her.
“You’ll be called Gerda,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “This is your home now. Understood?”
Oddly enough, Gerda settled right there, calm and watchful. Emily, the warehouse clerk, brought out a bowl of leftovers. Gerda sniffed, then ate every scrap.
“Good girl,” Emily murmured, stroking her head. Gerda leaned into the touch, tail swaying gently.
She was a quiet creature, soon making the vast workshop her domain—her kingdom to guard. The workers brought treats; some she took straight from their hands, others she waited for, patient until the offering was placed before her.
Emily was the one Gerda chose. All day, she stayed close, unfazed by the screech of metal being cut, the clatter of machinery. At night, she kept the night watchman company.
Mornings, Gerda stood proudly by the entrance, greeting each worker like an old friend.
“Sleep well, did you?” they’d joke, and she’d wag her tail as if to say, *Well enough*.
Everyone loved her. She never strayed beyond her workshop, patrolling the perimeter but never crossing it. Emily cooked extra portions at home—always a plate for Gerda. They were inseparable.
If Emily stepped out, Gerda trotted beside her, never running off, always returning when she did.
“Look at that guard dog of yours,” the men teased. “Try getting past *her*!”
Emily would laugh. “No idea why she picked me, but here we are.”
Years passed. Gerda belonged to the workshop now, trusted by all—though not everyone deserved it. One night, steel bars vanished. The night watchman, known to drink on the job, swore he saw nothing.
“But Gerda should’ve stopped them,” Emily muttered. Then she noticed—when two workers passed, Gerda bristled, growling low. She told the foreman.
The watchman confessed. “Lenny and Vince gave me a bottle. I drank, passed out. They locked Gerda in the storeroom. Didn’t let her out till morning…”
Lenny and Vince were sacked. Gerda never growled again.
Then Emily’s holiday approached. “What’ll I do with you?” she sighed, scratching Gerda’s ears. “Maybe I’ll take you home. Your eyes keep weeping—might be the factory air.”
On her last day, Emily brought a lead. Gerda hesitated, unused to the world beyond the workshop. Near home, neighbour’s geese hissed, stretching their necks. Gerda pressed close to Emily.
“Scared of geese?” Emily laughed. “They’ll pinch if you let them!”
In the garden, Emily settled Gerda in an old kennel left by Rex, their late dog.
“You’ll stay here for now. It’s summer—no need to drag you inside yet.”
At the river, Gerda plunged in joyfully, splashing, shaking off droplets before diving back.
“You should see her swim,” Emily told her coworkers later.
Time passed. Then, one day, Gerda grew round. The workers teased, “When did *this* happen?” Gerda wagged her tail, almost bashful.
When the time came, Emily found two whimpering pups by her side. “Clever girl,” she whispered. Gerda gazed up, proud.
She raised them strictly. Once grown, workers took them home.
Then disaster struck.
One afternoon, Emily returned to chaos.
“What happened?” she asked the first man she saw.
“Security’s coming to put Gerda down. She attacked a woman from the next workshop—after the woman threw a stick at her. We didn’t believe it—our Gerda’s gentle—but it happened.”
Emily’s blood ran cold.
Andrew, the driver who’d named her, helped smuggle Gerda out. They sped to Emily’s house.
Gerda settled in the garden, greeting Emily each morning, waiting faithfully each night.
“Off to work,” Emily would say, stroking her head. “You’re in charge.” Gerda watched, solemn.
At thirty-two, Emily married James. Gerda approved, wagging for him too.
Winter came harsh and biting.
“We should bring her inside,” James said one evening.
Emily smiled. “Was just thinking that.”
Their cat, Whiskers, curled beside Gerda in the garden, defying the old saying *fighting like cat and dog*.
When Emily’s son, Toby, was born, Gerda guarded his pram, barking if he stirred.
One winter night, wiring sparked. Gerda raced in, tugging the blankets. Whiskers pounced on James’s chest. They woke just in time.
“Good girl,” James breathed, stroking her.
But time wore on. Gerda grew stiff, her hind legs failing. One evening, Emily returned to find Whiskers leading her around the house—to where Gerda lay, muzzle on her paws. Tears welled in her eyes as Emily knelt beside her.
By morning, she was gone. Whiskers sat vigil, silent and grieving.
