“Betrayal or Faith Rewarded”
“I’ve made up my mind, Mum! Enough!” Johnny clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the window.
“You… you’re a traitor, Johnny!” His mother’s voice trembled, thick with despair and accusation.
“A traitor? Me?” The boy choked on his indignation, spun on his heel, and stormed out of the room.
The door slammed behind him as he threw himself onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow. Anger seethed inside him, but soon it was eclipsed by memories—warm, scented with summer and happiness.
When Johnny turned eight, his father gifted him the bicycle of his dreams—a gleaming stunt bike, bright blue and perfect. The boy was overjoyed, racing with friends from dawn till dusk, forgetting everything else. Even his father’s upcoming birthday. His grandfather reminded him.
“Johnny, lad, have ye thought of a gift for your dad?” the old man murmured as they sat together on the porch.
“No, Grandad… I hadn’t.”
“Well, no matter. If ye like, we’ll make somethin’ together. I’ve an idea.”
For two weeks, they crafted a wooden key rack—carving, sanding, staining, fixing the hooks. Johnny worked as hard as his grandfather, even leaving his beloved bike to gather dust. On his father’s birthday, the man was unusually cheerful, thanking them for the gift, hugging Johnny tight, embracing Grandad. Then, to everyone’s laughter, he brought out a wicker basket from the porch.
Inside slept a puppy. Black, plump, his coat shining.
“Meet Baxter. My gift to myself. A childhood dream.”
“Dave, you’ve gone mad!” His mother threw up her hands. “A dog?”
“Not just any dog—he’s like a wee bear!” His father laughed, his grin so boyish it disarmed them all.
Baxter was loved instantly. A Staffordshire Bull Terrier, he grew like yeast in dough—strong, broad-chested, gentle, and kind. He adored Johnny’s father, shadowing him, guarding him. Then… one night, he saved him.
Late in the park, two men confronted his dad—knives, threats. From the bushes burst Baxter, black as coal, fierce as a storm. The sight alone sent the attackers stumbling back.
“If they’d known he wouldn’t hurt a fly…” his father later chuckled.
But the worst came after. Illness. Leukaemia. In months, his father faded like a candle in the wind. Johnny was only twelve. And Baxter became his shadow.
Now, Johnny was fifteen. A year ago, Mark entered their lives—a decent man, respectful. But when he moved in, it turned out he was deathly allergic to dogs.
At first, his mother tried to soften it, but then she said it plain: “We have to give Baxter away.” Mark was family now, she argued. The dog… Johnny listened in disbelief. How could they betray one who’d never betrayed them?
He asked friends, begged them to take Baxter—no luck. An old Staffy suited no one. Grandad wasn’t an option; the old man could barely walk himself, let alone care for a dog.
“I won’t send him to a shelter!” Johnny said the day they had the final talk.
“But Mark is ours now. He’s family…” His mother wept. “Is a dog really worth more than a person?”
“Worth more than Mark? Aye.” Johnny exhaled. “Because he’s family. Baxter was Dad’s family. And mine. And yours, Mum. Let me take him to Grandad’s. We won’t be in the way.”
“And what of me? Split between two homes? I work, Johnny…”
Silently, he pointed to the key rack they’d made years ago. Baxter’s lead hung there.
“I’ve already decided.”
“Traitor,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
Later, Grandad called her himself. “Lydia, let the lad stay here. There’s distance learning. Truth be told, it’s easier with him about. And Baxter too. We’ll manage.”
Even Mark surprised them. “Lyd, let him go. He’s near grown. The dog’ll be cared for. What’s the harm?”
Johnny arrived at Grandad’s with Baxter and a duffel bag. The dog, huffing happily, sprawled by the telly at once. Everything fell into place.
Then, one day, Grandad called—his voice frail, uneasy. “Johnny, lad, somethin’s not right with me heart. Come quick…”
Johnny bolted from his studies, racing home. A neighbour had already rung for an ambulance, hovering anxiously by the old man’s bedside.
“Ta, Margaret. We’ll manage now.”
The medics arrived swiftly. The doctor gave an injection. A young paramedic named Emily lingered in the doorway, eyeing Baxter.
“Don’t fret, he’s gentle,” Johnny said hurriedly.
“Wasn’t frettin’,” Emily grinned, stepping inside.
The doctor advised home care for the drips. “Someone to tend him?”
“No one…” Johnny spread his hands helplessly.
“Emily, can ye manage?” the doctor asked.
“Aye. If the beast doesn’t eat me.”
She winked at the dog. Baxter side-eyed her, tucked his tongue, and seemed to nod. So it began.
Emily came daily. Johnny started walking her out. Then strolling together. Then lingering in the park. Their talks grew longer, quieter, weightier…
Then little Alfie was born.
Baxter greeted Emily home from the hospital like family. He abandoned his spot by the telly for a rug by the crib, watching over the babe, grumbling if he woke. He slept nearby. Stayed nearby. Always.
Alfie took his first steps clutching Baxter’s collar.
The dog turned thirteen. He wheezed but trudged faithfully beside the toddler—old, wise, weary, yet steadfast.
One day, Emily dashed to the shop—nappies, milk. Alfie slept; Grandad was home.
“Don’t fret,” said Albert Edward. “We’ll manage.”
But his heart gave out. Pain, darkness, helplessness.
Baxter leapt onto the sofa, licked his hand. Then to Alfie. Then to the door. The door swung open. He bolted to the neighbour’s. She understood—trouble.
Johnny returned to the scent of medicine and the damp quiet of the house.
“Sorry,” Emily sobbed. “If not for Baxter…”
“S’alright. All’s well.”
Baxter watched from the floor, his gaze heavy, deep, brimming with love.
He never betrayed.
Never.
