He didn’t know how long he’d been living like this, but each day he returned to the house that had once been his home. Graf had lived here for three happy years, adoring his owner and ready to give his life for him. But everything changed when his owner suddenly clutched his chest and collapsed to the floor. Graf licked his face, whimpered and barked, trying to bring him back, but strangers came and took the man away. Graf was left alone…
He continued to wait at the gate, sleeping only a few minutes at a time, hoping the white car would bring his owner back, but he never returned. Other people came—loud and fussy—and drove Graf away. He lost everything: his owner, his home, and even hope. Now his life was a fight for survival. He hid under bushes, terrified by unfamiliar smells and sounds.
He learned to catch mice and avoid forest animals that could harm him. His fur became matted, his ribs stuck out, hunger became his norm. Sometimes, remembering his past life, Graf would howl bitterly at the moon.
One day, as he approached the house again, he spotted a car and people near the gate. It was like a flash of hope, and his heart started beating faster. A boy, seeing him, shouted:
“Dad, Mom, look! A dog! There it is, in the bushes!”
“Yes, I’m here! It’s me!” Graf barked, trying to draw attention. His voice was hoarse, barely audible, but fear and hope pushed him to crawl toward the people, whimpering quietly.
“Misha! Come here, right now!” the woman shouted, grabbing the boy and pulling him close. “Just look at that horrible dog! A stray, probably sick! Ugh! Vicious, scary dog! Go away!”
Graf stopped, confused. He had waited so long for this moment and was ready to be the best dog for these people. He was sure he could serve them faithfully.
“Get out of here!” the man shouted, raising the stick again.
Graf pressed himself to the ground, then leapt up and ran toward the forest. Fear and sorrow overwhelmed him, and he didn’t hear the woman tell the boy:
“Misha, that’s a bad dog. Don’t go near it! It could be rabid! If it bites you, you’ll need lots of shots!”
“It’s a good dog!” the boy said firmly, pulling away from her. “It’s just hungry! I want to be its friend!”
“If it dares come near the house,” the father muttered through clenched teeth, “I’ll hire hunters and end this! We came here to relax, not to share the land with dogs!”
Graf returned to his hiding place, shivering from cold and hurt. Why had they driven him away? He hadn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t fair…
But maybe he could prove his worth? So he began to patrol his former territory, searching for something valuable to bring to the people. This time, luck was on his side: he found a dead squirrel. Graf grabbed it and ran to the house, hoping his gesture would be appreciated.
No one was in sight, likely inside settling in. Graf circled the fence, found a loose spot where it didn’t quite reach the ground, and crawled through. He placed the squirrel on a flowerbed, barked three times, and waited.
A woman appeared on the porch. Seeing Graf and his “gift,” she screamed:
“That awful dog again! And it brought some disgusting thing! Ivan, where are you?! Do something!”
The man ran out, saw Graf with the squirrel, and exploded with rage. When he went back inside and returned with an axe, Graf realized his gift was not welcome.
Terrified, he jumped over the fence and raced back to his shelter, hoping they wouldn’t find him again. When people with guns entered the forest, Graf dug into the earth, praying they would pass him by.
He knew they could’ve been friends. He often watched the boy from a distance, playing with a ball or toy cars. But the adults were busy with their own affairs. Graf felt the boy’s loneliness and kept hiding in the shadows, knowing they could have been close.
That day, Graf sensed danger with a kind of sixth canine sense. There was a pond near the property, overgrown with duckweed. It was small, but deep. Graf had heard his owner warn that the pond was deceptive: it looked calm and shallow, but the bottom dropped off immediately, and it was muddy and soft. When his owner used to fish there, Graf would lie nearby or chase frogs. Those had been happy days.
The parents didn’t notice when their son, Misha, left the house and wandered toward the pond. The water beckoned with its mystery. Glancing around to ensure the adults were occupied, the boy approached the edge. Graf, watching from the bushes, growled anxiously as Misha leaned over to touch the water.
Suddenly, the boy slipped. His sandals slid in the mud, and before he could cry out, he fell in—disappearing beneath the surface. Graf, as if his own life depended on it, sprang to his feet and rushed toward the boy. Fear and instinct drove him. Without thinking, he leapt into the water, splashing and diving, trying to grab the child. Blind underwater, he relied on luck and silently begged his dog-guardians for help.
And a miracle happened. Graf caught the boy’s shirt and, with great effort, pulled him to the shore. At that moment, the parents ran out of the house and started yelling at the dog. Graf thought it was the end—but then he lost consciousness.
When he came to, he heard a woman’s voice, soft and kind:
“Puppy, dear, wake up!”
Graf tried to lift his head but couldn’t. Everything was spinning, and he couldn’t move.
“Please wake up!” the voice continued, full of worry and care.
“I’ll take him to the vet as soon as he wakes up!” the man said.
“Please don’t die!” the boy cried through tears.
Graf weakly tried to wag his tail, thinking: “Don’t cry, little one. I’m alive. We dogs are strong.” He felt the warmth of the woman holding him, and it gave him strength.
“Mom, Dad, he’s alive!” Misha shouted, hugging the dog joyfully.
They wrapped Graf in a warm blanket and put him in the car.
In the back seat, Graf felt at peace. The woman stroked him and spoke comforting words. He no longer felt like a scary, dangerous dog, but like a beloved friend. The boy whispered, hugging his neck:
“Good dog, get well! Everything’s going to be okay!”
When they arrived at the vet, the doctor examined Graf and said:
“He’s young, he’ll recover, though he swallowed a lot of water. Very thin. A stray?”
The parents exchanged glances.
“Ours,” the father said, hugging Graf. “He’s our dog now.”
“Hooray!” Misha shouted, running to hug his parents and the dog.
The vet prescribed medication and advised feeding him gently. He also asked:
“What’s the hero’s name?”
The parents looked at each other. The mother suggested:
“Maybe Tuzik?”
But the father objected:
“No, he’s a hero! He needs a proper name.”
At that moment, Graf tried to rise on his paws, as if trying to show them his name.
“I think he’s saying his name is Graf,” the mother guessed.
“Of course, Graf! Look at him—he’s a true aristocrat!” the vet agreed.
Misha hugged his new friend and said:
“Let him be Graf. What matters is that now you’re my best dog in the world!”
Soon they returned to the house Graf once knew as his old home. Now, it became a place of happiness again. Lying on a warm blanket, Graf thought the world was fair after all. He was no longer a scary, unwanted dog—but a loyal friend and protector of his family.
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