The snow fell gently outside Tom Whitaker’s cabin, blanketing the woods in a serene hush. Inside, the fireplace cast a warm glow, flickering and dancing, casting long shadows on the walls. The smell of pine from the small, undecorated tree in the corner filled the room with a comforting aroma. It was Christmas Eve. Tom, a retired schoolteacher, sat in his favorite armchair. He had a mug of cocoa in hand and a book he couldn’t quite focus on. For the first time in decades, he was spending Christmas alone.
His wife, Evelyn, had passed away three years ago. His grown children were scattered across the country. They were tied up with their own families and commitments. Tom didn’t blame them, but the ache of solitude was undeniable. He declined their offers to join them, insisting he’d be fine alone. He wasn’t.
A knock at the door startled him as he gazed into the fire. Who would visit on a night like this? He opened the door. He found a boy no older than ten. The boy was bundled up in a red coat. He was holding a scraggly puppy with floppy ears.
“Hi, mister,”
the boy said, shivering uncontrollably.
“I found this puppy in the snow. My mom said we can’t keep him, but maybe you can.”
Tom stared at the boy and the trembling pup.
“Come inside before you freeze,”
he said, taking the puppy in his arms.
The boy declined, pointing to a car waiting at the edge of Tom’s driveway.
“Merry Christmas!”
he called as he dashed off.
Tom closed the door, holding the puppy close. The little dog’s brown eyes looked up at him with fear and hope.
“Well, you’re an unexpected guest,”
Tom murmured. He fetched a blanket and some leftover chicken for the pup, who wagged its tail furiously.
Later that evening, as Tom felt less lonely, another knock came. This time, it was Mrs. Abernathy, his elderly neighbor. She held a tin of cookies and a thermos of cider.
“I noticed your lights on,”
she said.
“Thought you like some company.”
She handed him the thermos, and the warm, comforting scent of cider filled the air.
They shared the cookies and cider, laughing about old times and neighbors long gone. Mrs. Abernathy left after an hour, but only after gifting Tom a hand-knitted scarf she had made.
As the clock struck midnight, Tom prepared for bed, his heart a little warmer. The puppy, now curled up in an old basket, barked softly. Another knock came.
“Who now?”
Tom muttered, opening the door.
A group of carolers stood outside, bundled against the cold, their voices harmonizing in “Silent Night.” Behind them was a man from a local grocery store holding a box.
“We’ve got extra holiday meals,”
the man explained after the carolers finished.
“Thought you might enjoy one.”
Tom accepted the box, his throat tight with emotion. Inside were a roast chicken, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and a pie.
As the night wore on, Tom marveled at the change. A Christmas he had dreaded became one filled with unexpected kindness. He sat by the fire with the puppy on his lap. The scarf was around his neck. He held a plate of warm food.
“Merry Christmas,”
he whispered to the little dog, who wagged its tail in agreement. Tom no longer felt alone. His cabin became filled with the spirit of the season through strangers, neighbors, and a small, scruffy pup. The pup found him when he needed it most.
This story first appeared some time ago, but it felt right to bring it back — with a little update. It’s about the dogs who’ve shared our lives over the years. Each one has left paw prints on our hearts that never fade. We’ve laughed with them, cared for them through their golden years, and mourned them when they left us. Those memories still tug at the heart, but they also remind us how lucky we were to have them.
And now, there’s Otis. The latest addition to our little family. Otis is, without question, a show all on his own. He is full of personality and quirks that can fill a book. He’s mostly happy, sometimes possessive, and always fiercely protective. His love is big, messy, and unconditional — and we smother him right back with ours. He keeps us laughing with his antics and over-the-top expressions. But one word of advice: don’t ever try to take his food away. Let’s just say you will walk away a finger short.
So to start –
It was a lazy Sunday. We had been at the desert retreat. We had bought it and happily named it the Roads End Ranch. It is west of Phoenix, Arizona. The location was so remote. Cattle still stirred throughout the desert region. They crossed the roadways undeterred by speeding cars. These cars carried new homeowners to neighborhoods built further out of the city. Occasionally, you would see a dead cow with all fours extending straight up. It had fallen victim to a collision with someone from the big town. They were speeding over a hill at night. When we first moved to the Roads End, we brought our fearless terrier, “Buddie.” We built him a castle of a doghouse. It had access to an airconditioned tool building. He was all of ten pounds and fattened on hotdogs. He loved them and would fight the biggest opponent before him and win to get his. Earlier in the summer, Buddy appeared sluggish and started drooping.
We thought he had been caught out in the heat. He had refused to take shelter in the tool shed. Instead, he wanted to fight with a ground squirrel that terrorized him daily. But the more we checked on him, the worse he got. We rushed him to a veterinarian, and testing began. They were baffled for two days. They not conclude what was wrong with this terror of the UPS driver. The little black attack dog would hide behind his favorite bush. He watched the driver unload the truck. Then he would rush up to the fence. He raised Cain with a bark so fierce. It startled the driver every time. Buddie was in trouble. Finally, a phone call came. The Vet’s office tech informed us about Buddie’s test results.
The results confirmed what we had feared — Buddie had advanced Valley Fever. The vet told us it can be deadly if not caught early, and they were deeply sorry. The delay in getting his test results back had cost us precious time. We met later that afternoon at the veterinary office to hear the full diagnosis.
Valley Fever, technically known as coccidioidomycosis, is a fungal infection caused by Coccidioides (pronounced kok-sid-ee-oh-OI-deez). Sometimes called “San Joaquin Valley Fever,” it can cause fever, coughing, fatigue, and other flu-like symptoms. There are two species of the Coccidioides fungus, both commonly found in dry, dusty soil throughout the Southwest. Farming, construction, strong winds—anything that stirs up the earth—can send their spores into the air.
When inhaled, those spores can infect the lungs. In humans, Valley Fever can range from mild to severe. Some cases resolve on their own. Others need antifungal medication. But unlike people, pets can’t tell us when something feels wrong. They rely on us to notice.
Buddie was always digging. He often chased ground squirrels. He buried his nose deep into the dirt. His head was below ground as often as it was above. By the time we recognized the signs, the infection had already taken hold. The fungus had consumed his lungs, leaving no hope for recovery. We had lost our boy — and with him, a piece of our hearts.
We said our goodbyes to Buddie. He slowly went to sleep. We brought him home to the Roads End Ranch. We buried him in his favorite corner. This was the one he liked to catch the UPS man. After his passing, we were finished with the idea of having more pals. Losing him had just been too hard. Besides, we were taking care of Steve’s mother, and she was entering hospice and taking up all of our time. It was all we do to her.
We took the best care of Steve’s mother, keeping her in our home through many ups and downs. Then, in June, she passed early one Sunday morning. It was quiet. Nothing was moving, not even our cat. It had been over a year since losing Buddie. And, now we were experiencing loss again. A month of memorials seemed to take place. We remembered her in Arizona. Then, we returned to Oklahoma to lay her to rest.
Then, we came home. The house was empty. It was just the two of us and the cat, Blanche, a spade female, Siamese. We had brought her with us from the move when we left Wichita, Kansas after 9/11, nearly six years earlier. She only became vocal when something got on her nerves or when I talked to her. She would talk back to Steve if he yelled at her, they had a relationship like that.
A few months passed, and Steve suggested we drive to the South Phoenix animal shelter and look at dogs. He said we didn’t want to get one—just look to get out of the house. So we left. When arriving, we walked through the outdoor kennel area. There were so many dogs, all barking for attention—except for one. He was a hound dog. He looked pitiful. It was like he had lost his last best friend. He was moping over in a corner of his kennel. He was not excited to see anyone. Yet, he came to us. Steve asked to take him for a walk, and the attendants provided a lead. The hound strolled around with us for ten minutes. He did not seem more excited than Eeyore from Winnie The Pooh.
During our walk with this dog, we decide to adopt an 80-pound, six-month-old American Fox Hound. We get him to our car and load him into the backseat. As both of us sit down up front, his head appears between the seats. He looks at the two of us. I asked Steve what are we calling him? We were listening to a song by an artist named Shooter Jennings, whom we both enjoyed. So, our dog found himself named Shooter at that point. We only put a little thought into it.
Buddie our first dog saved Shooter’s life!
Valley Fever can show up in dogs in many ways. One of the most common signs is unexplained joint pain, often in a front leg. We learned that too late with Buddie. By the time we understood what was happening, the infection had already taken hold. But when Shooter came limping in one afternoon, crying out at even the lightest touch, we didn’t hesitate. We rushed him to the vet, and the diagnosis was clear — Valley Fever again. This time, though, we were ready. Medication was started right away, and Shooter recovered. In a way, Buddie had taught us how to save Shooter. Our first pal had given his life to save our second — a lesson in love we’ll never forget.
Shooter grew into a 120-pound dog, the most loyal hound a person ever asked for. He never made a mistake or mess in the house. He always strives to please us. His life was one of loyalty. He was a big scaredy-cat but the most excellent protector. He hated thunderstorms. He would only go out in the rain if you went with him. You had to hold an umbrella over him while he did his business. He’d keep it and refuse to go outside if you didn’t offer to take the umbrella. If you had a big juicy bone, you lay a towel down on the floor. Tell him to keep it on the towel. Not a piece of the bone would hit any other part of the floor. He stayed put. He was the perfect boy. He loved other people. Too much sometimes. Steve often accidentally tripped our home alarm. The local police department would arrive. That is when you realize naming your dog Shooter was not the best choice. The first time they were here, we yelled, “Shooter, get down!” The look on the officer’s face was priceless. We were using the wrong tone. It wasn’t how we should have been saying it. The officer asked if we were alone and if we were okay. Are you being threatened?
We had to explain that was the dog’s name. We had to go through the whole dog licensing explanation. Fortunately, I had photo identifications made of ‘Shooter’. I offer them, which brought fun to the moment. After that incident, I took action to make sure the 911 center had a note. It stated that a dog named Shooter lived at our location. They should expect to hear us yelling commands at him because he loves everybody. “Shooter” lived until the age of 14. One summer, a micro-burst struck and tore the roof off our home. During the process, we were reduced to living out of one room of our home while it was under repair. “Shooter” had been showing signs of slowing down. We had been concerned we would find him gone some morning, but he was always there to greet us.
While the house was under construction, “Shooter” seemed worse. We called a veterinarian to come to our home. He not be there until the next day because of the damage. That evening, his breathing became labored, and we cuddled with him, holding our pal. He raised his head, let out two last whines, and died. Our “Shooter-boy” was gone. He had been our best friend and closest family member many times. He was filling in for the loss of others who passed. He taught us how to love and be brave during thunderstorms. In the end, I believe he showed us how even to die.
“Shooter”
Today we have Otis. A Jack Russell Terrier. We describe him as a terror. He is a character. And a handful at times. He keeps us busy. Wanting to play, and running in and out of the house. He is very protective of his home. We have to put him in a safe area when we have company. He needs time to adjust to new people being inside. We wait to see what is up with him each day. Never knowing what he will do next.
“OTIS”
Otis is named after the drunk on the Andy Griffith show. This is mainly because when we went to adopt him, he escaped from the shelter. Four people were chasing him around the parking lot and buildings. He finally was captured. And placed in a holding cell. We couldn’t help but love his innocent look he had after his little run from the law. He has an attitude. He will growl when he has had enough of you. Telling you to let him be. If you notice not any single one of our dogs have a single thing in common. Except that they were rescued from animal shelters. And they live a full and happy life.
By Benjamin H. Groff II | Truth Endures | The Story Teller
2–3 minutes
Tales are whispered across the cold stones of Scandinavia. They speak of an “evil dog” that once haunted the churches of Sweden. But those who truly know the legend say the creature was never evil at all. It was the kyrkogrim — a guardian spirit born not of sin, but of sacrifice.
A Dog Buried Beneath Holy Ground
In the centuries when churches first rose across the Nordic lands, builders followed a chilling custom. To guarantee their new sanctuaries would stand against evil, they buried a living creature beneath the cornerstone. This creature was often a black dog. Its final, terrified breath was thought to bind its soul to the ground, forming a spiritual sentinel.
That spirit became the kyrkogrim: the Church Grim. It was always black as midnight. It was condemned to patrol the churchyard. Its duty was to watch over the graves and keep the devil himself from defiling holy ground.
The Protector and the Omen
By day, the kyrkogrim was invisible. But when night fell and candles flickered low, villagers spoke of seeing the great black hound. It was pacing near the church doors. Its eyes glowed like coals in the dark. It was said to snarl at grave robbers and frighten off witches. Yet, for all its protection, it carried a darker burden.
To see the kyrkogrim was to get a warning. The watcher’s death, it was said, would soon follow. The same spirit shielded the church from evil. It also bore the scent of the grave. This grim paradox kept villagers both thankful and fearful of its presence.
The First Soul of the Graveyard
Long before Christianity spread through Scandinavia, ancient peoples offered animal sacrifices to bless new structures and sacred sites. Early Christian builders, inheriting these customs, altered them to fit their faith. The dog buried beneath the first church became “the first soul” in the graveyard. This ensured that no human would have to linger eternally as the church’s guardian.
Thus, the kyrkogrim was not a monster. Instead, it was a martyr. It symbolized the uneasy blend of pagan ritual and Christian devotion. It was the bridge between two worlds: the old gods of the land and the new God of the heavens.
Echoes Through Time
Even today, stories of the kyrkogrim persist in Swedish folklore. Some say the black dog still walks among the headstones on stormy nights, especially near churches centuries old. Others claim that every church has its own silent watcher — unseen, but always there.
What began as a superstition has evolved into something deeper. It reflects the human need to guard what we hold sacred. The kyrkogrim, once buried in darkness, lives on in story — a faithful spirit that never abandoned its post.
Elias never thought of himself as special. He lived in a small cabin at the edge of the woods. There, he worked as a carpenter. In the evenings, he fed the stray cats that wandered in from the trees. He had always felt an odd comfort around animals. He attributed this to his quiet nature and patient hands.
It began with his dog, Rusty. One evening while Elias rubbed behind the old hound’s ears, he thought he heard a whisper. It wasn’t a sound exactly, but a clear impression: “Don’t stop, that feels good.” Elias froze, hand hovering mid-scratch. Rusty nudged him insistently, and the thought returned, playful and warm. At first, Elias dismissed it as his imagination. The barn cat slinked across the porch the next morning. Yet, he felt a sharp pang of hunger that wasn’t his own. He realized something impossible was happening.
At first, the animals spoke only in feelings. They expressed affection when he stroked their fur. There was annoyance if he pulled away too soon, and gratitude when he left out food. But as days passed, the impressions grew sharper, almost like sentences forming inside his mind. One afternoon, Rusty limped. Elias felt a jolt of pain in his knee. This was followed by the plea: “It hurts, please help.” He checked and found a thorn buried deep in the dog’s paw. A sparrow darted to his windowsill and flooded him with urgency: “Nest broken, chicks in danger.” Elias followed its pull and discovered a nest toppled in the wind. He rescued the hatchlings before the foxes found them.
Word seemed to spread, though Elias never understood how. Stray dogs lingered near his cabin. Deer stared at him without fear. Once, even a wounded hawk landed on his porch rail. Each brought with it a silent voice—requests for healing, warnings of predators, messages of danger to others of their kind. With every answered call, Elias felt the bond deepen.
Soon he realized this gift was more than companionship. It was responsibility. He can bridge a gap no one else: soothing fear, preventing harm, guiding creatures toward safety. A flood threatened the lower fields. He was awoken by the frantic voices of burrowing animals. He led the farmer’s family to higher ground just in time. Poachers crept through the forest one autumn night. The owls carried their presence to him in overlapping echoes. He alerted the rangers. Before long, his reputation surpassed even that of Dr. Doolittle, carrying an edge that would have made famed explorer Dr. Livingstone himself take notice.
Elias no longer saw himself as just a man in a cabin. He was part of a living chorus, every feather, paw, and claw connected through an unseen thread. And though it sometimes weighed heavy on him, he carried it gladly. For the first time in history, animals had found someone who truly listened. He had discovered a purpose greater than he’d ever imagined.
Tuff was no ordinary dog. He was a broad-chested, mixed-breed bulldog from the dusty plains of western Oklahoma. He was loyal to the core. He was tough as nails—just like his name. He belonged to a boy named JD, and from the moment they met, the two were inseparable.
Wherever JD went, Tuff followed. JD rode across the Caddo and Washita County prairie on his sturdy pony. He even rode it to the one-room schoolhouse west of Eakly. He rounded up cattle on the family farm. Regardless Tuff was there, his paws pounding the dirt in time with the horse’s hooves. At school, while JD sat through his lessons, Tuff stayed with the horse, standing guard like a seasoned sentry. Rain or shine, he never left his post. He stayed until the bell rang. Then, the trio trotted home together, just three-quarters of a mile up the road.
One warm afternoon, while JD was still in school, trouble came calling. A neighbor’s ornery bull had pushed its way through a loosely latched gate and wandered off. As luck would have it, it made its way straight to JD’s homestead, snorting and stomping with agitation. JD’s mother was outside hanging laundry to dry in the Oklahoma breeze. The bull burst through the linens like a locomotive. It tore shirts and sheets from the line as it charged.
Startled, she dropped her clothespin basket and backed toward the yard fence, but there was nowhere left to go. The bull pawed at the dirt, its head low, flaring its nostrils as it prepared to strike. Streaks of foam, mixed with dust and sweat, ran from its mouth. Its bulk towered just yards away from her.
Thinking fast, JD’s mom cupped her hands to her mouth and called out with everything she had:
“Tuff! Ole Tuff! Come on, boy!”
Three-quarters of a mile away, in the tall grass outside the schoolyard, Tuff heard her. His ears perked up. He knew that voice—and he knew something was wrong.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Tuff shot off like a bullet, heading for home. He crossed pasture and ditch, squeezing under fences and dodging brush, driven by pure instinct.
When he arrived, the bull was still threatening JD’s mother. Tuff didn’t bark or hesitate. He charged.
The bull turned at the last second. It was startled and tried to lower its head for a fight. But, Tuff was already on him. He raced in circles, nipping and weaving, confusing the brute. The bull spun to face him again and again, becoming dizzy from the dog’s unrelenting speed.
Then, in one perfectly timed leap, Tuff clamped down on the bull’s nose—hard. The bull bucked and shook, kicked and bawled, but Tuff held firm, teeth sunk deep, refusing to let go. He brought the angry beast to its knees, pinning it in place with nothing but grit and jaw strength.
Just then, a cowboy riding by spotted the commotion. JD’s mother waved him down, shouting, “Ride fast to the Yarnell place! Tell ’em their bull’s out before someone gets hurt!”
The man nodded and galloped off in a cloud of dust.
Within the hour, the Yarnells arrived with ropes, a nose ring, and a long wooden block to secure the bull. The farmer jumped down from his saddle, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I’m real sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I reckon I forgot to latch the gate. Wind must’ve blown it wide open.” He paused, nodding toward the growling dog still latched onto the bull’s nose. “But first, we’re gonna need that dog to let go.”
JD’s mom looked at Tuff, calm and composed despite the ordeal. “Tuff, let go now, boy. Come here.”
Without hesitation, Tuff released the bull and trotted obediently to her side, tongue lolling, chest heaving but proud. The bull didn’t move again until ropes were secured and the men began the long walk back to their farm.
JD’s mom glanced at her watch and smiled. “Tuff, JD’s about to get out of school. You’d better go meet him.”
And with that, Tuff turned and loped back down the road. He was headed to the schoolyard just in time to greet his boy.
That evening, Tuff was treated like a king. JD’s mom gave him the biggest soup bone she’d been saving. He was even allowed to lie on the kitchen floor during supper. This was something normally off-limits. As the family passed dishes and swapped stories, JD’s mom told them what Tuff had done.
The story of Ole Tuff was told time and again. It was passed down through the years by my grandmother and my dad. Every time it was told, Tuff got a little tougher. Tuff got a little braver. Yet, the heart of the story stayed the same.
Because sometimes, legends aren’t born in books or movies.
Sometimes, they’re born in backyards—with a boy, his dog, and a mama hanging laundry.
There’s a certain magic that shows up in late June. It drifts in on a warm breeze. It wraps itself around your shoulders like a sun-warmed blanket. It whispers, “Slow down a while.”
That was exactly what happened to me last Saturday.
I had plans, mind you. Big ones. Rake the yard. Clean out the garage. Paint that little table I rescued from a flea market. But then the sun was golden and lazy. It was the type of sunshine that doesn’t rush you. It invites you to stay awhile. So, I made a bold decision: I postponed productivity.
Instead of pulling out the rakes and tools, I pulled out a lawn chair. I poured a tall glass of iced tea. Then I plopped down under the shade of the patio covering. I did absolutely nothing. And I mean nothing. No phone. No music. No news. I listened to birdsong and felt a slight breeze. I heard the sound of a neighbor’s sprinkler ticking rhythmically like a metronome for summer’s easy tempo.
I watched the clouds. I counted the dragonflies. I let the world spin on without me—and it did just fine.
The dog lay beside me, belly-up to the sky, offering a solid endorsement for this lazy lifestyle. Even a stray cat, who usually stares at me like staff, sauntered over and decided to join the movement. We were a trio of content creatures, basking in a moment that cost nothing but meant everything.
At the end of the day, the lawn remained a jumble of rocks. The garage was still messy. The table continued to wait. But my heart? My heart was lighter. My shoulders less tense. And my soul? Sun-soaked and satisfied.
Summer has a way of reminding us that rest is not a reward—it’s a right. And sometimes, the most productive thing you can do is give yourself permission to simply be.
Moral of the story:
Don’t underestimate the power of a lazy summer day. It is true that you’re doing nothing—but you are just giving your spirit exactly what it needs.
It started with a folding table, two plastic chairs, and a hand-painted sign that read, “Ice Cold Lemonade – 50¢.”
Emma, who is ten years old, and her little brother Caleb had a plan. They decided to spend the first real summer day doing something “big.” Not big like a vacation or fireworks—big like making a difference.
Their mom had mentioned that the animal shelter was trying to raise money. They needed some extra dog beds. They also needed fans for the kennels. That was all Emma needed to hear. She got to work squeezing lemons. She mixed sugar and water. She convinced Caleb that “lemonade manager” was a very important title.
By noon, their little stand was drawing a crowd. The lemonade was refreshing and generously poured. Additionally, Emma had placed a tip jar with a note: All proceeds go to the shelter pups! People smiled. They left five-dollar bills. Some handed over twenties and refused change. One elderly man left a fifty and simply said, “Thank you for reminding me what kindness looks like.”
By the end of the day, they had raised $237.50. They delivered it in person, with sticky hands and sunburned noses, to a surprised and teary-eyed shelter worker. Emma and Caleb even got to name one of the rescued puppies. They chose “Sunny.”
That evening, their mom posted a photo of the kids and their lemonade stand online. It went a little viral. Local news picked it up. The shelter ended up receiving over $3,000 in donations that week. This happened because two kids wanted to do something “big” on a warm summer day.
Now every June, Emma and Caleb set up the stand again, same folding table, same handwritten sign. Only now, the line stretches down the sidewalk. And Sunny? She got adopted. By them, of course.
Bruiser, Oggy and Jackie, three friends that protected Benji.
It was Three O’clock in the morning before the Doctor arrived at Benji’s home. The Doctor had been tied up delivering twin babies out in the country, 12 miles south of town. When he returned to his office, his night nurse instructed him to go to Benji’s house for an emergency. The Doctor hadn’t wasted any time. Benji’s parents led the Doctor down the hall to Benji’s room. Benji’s mother explained in detail to the Doctor. She shared that Benji has had a 106-degree temperature.
“I haven’t managed to get it to break. I have tried everything I know to use.”
The Doctor took a look at Benji, who was mumbling. Shining a light into Benji’s pupils, they were dilated and fixed, something the Doctor didn’t like. He took his temperature, and it read 107. He checked the inside of Benji’s mouth. He saw what looked like the start of mouth blisters caused by the temperature. Oddly, Benji’s ears were clear. The Doctor turned to Benji’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Roff.
“I’m not at liberty to reveal what it is. Is it is an allergic reaction to something the boy found in the forest? Possible. Is it a splinter infection we can’t see. Or it is a virus. Plenty of those are circulating these days. The important thing for us to do is get him cooled down.”
The Doctor instructed Benji’s mother to soak him in a bathtub filled with cold water and ice.
“He needs ice baths every hour. He’ll start fighting it. I would, too. But, we need to lower the temperature to at least 100. Then, we can give him some over-the-counter medication to help from there. Plus, while you are soaking him, be sure to watch his feet for thorns or splinters he has. Do the same with the legs, arms, and hands. Check any part of his body for that matter. We want to make sure he hasn’t got some foreign item infecting him.”
Madge, Benji’s mother, was quick to start running cold tap water into the tub. She emptied ice trays and sent Jake to the store to buy bags of ice. Benji’s temperature continued to rise. It climbed to 109. The Doctor was sitting in the kitchen. He had a cup of coffee. He said,
“I don’t like this one bit. If it goes up much further, we are going to have to put him in a hospital. I know it is costly and a ways from home. But, we need access to fluids and IVs that only a hospital can offer. Continue bathing him and try to see if we can lower the temperature.”
As Benji’s parents moved him from the bed to the bath, he talked about feral hogs. He also mentioned wildcats and bottomless pits. Benji’s mother asked her husband, Jake, if he had any idea what he was talking about. Jake, scratching his head, replied wearily,
“Not – A- Clue! I have never heard him talk of any of them, and we ain’t got that thing around here.”
Madge asked Jake if he had wandered into No Man’s Land and got the ideas from there. Jake replied,
“I don’t see how. All that is back there is old scrub brush and blackjack trees. Maybe a few bobcats and a coyote or two. Our cows won’t even go in there. The most he’d get if he went in there is dirty.”
Benji kept having visions of Bruiser standing in front of him. Bruiser was fighting off a feral hog. Oggy distracted a second hog. Then, Jackie barked at a third. Then, his vision went black. And a cold wash went over him. SPLASH! Next, he was in a cave. He heard a scream and looked around for its source. He felt the dogs surrounding him. Again, a Cold wash went over him, and it went dark again. SPLASH! Next, he was near the Bottomless Pit. He looked around and saw the straight-down drop-off. His stomach became unsettled. Then, another cold wash, SPLASH! He was at the clearing with his parents. This time, they were drying him off. Benji began struggling and squealing -––– yelling out,
“Oh, please tell me I didn’t fall into the Bottomless Pit! “
Madge and Jake, both happy that he was awake and the temperature appeared to have broken, called to him. Madge, hugging him, cried.
“Benji, Benji, can you hear us? You have been so sick, son.”
Jake wanted to know what Benji had been talking about. He asked,
“What is all this talk about? You mentioned feral hogs, wildcats, and bottomless pits. You had us all going for a minute. That must’ve been some dream!”
Benji said it wasn’t a dream; it happened. He knew it did. He wanted to know how are Bruiser, Oggy, and Jackie? Jake assured him they were fine. They had all been fed. They were sleeping on their pads by the door. They were being lazy. Benji asked if Bruiser had to have stitches. Jake laughed, asking,
“What are you talking about? Bruiser is fine; he has been playing with Oggy out in the front yard all afternoon. But I can tell they all three are missing you being out there with them.”
Benji couldn’t figure out how this could all be just a dream. It had to be real. It had to have been something he did. He stopped elaborating on the story. He was cautious because he didn’t want his parents to limit where he go. After a week of healing and receiving the Doctor’s approval, Benji was back to his regular habits. The Doctor suspected he must’ve had some spoiled food. The last thing Benji remembers eating before getting sick was canned Vienna Sausages. They had stayed in a pack in a locked car in the sun’s heat for some time. He and his pals were on the fringes of the yard, playing rescue. It required rations of sorts to get back to home base. So, Benji used cans of Vienna Sausages. He had been carrying them with him for a year or longer. He had left them in his backpack in locked cars throughout the summer and winter months. The Doctor guessed. Those things must have marinated well over sixty times. They probably tasted like prime rib to Benji. After a week and a half, Benji was back to his regular self, as were the dogs. Leading and trailing the youngster wherever he went.
Benji promised himself he had to know. He got down on one knee before leaving the house that day. He told Bruiser, Oggy, and Jackie,
“You guys don’t have to come with me. I know in my dream, if that was what it was, you almost got hurt badly. Especially you, Bruiser. It is okay if you want to stay home and sit this one out. I understand!”
The three pooches glanced at each other. It seemed like they were taking a moral inventory. Then they looked back at Benji. In unison, they all barked -––
“We’re in!”
They were all off to the Hollow that led to the area Benji called “No Man’s Land.”
This time, they got there early in the morning, just after 7:00 a.m. Benji called his trio of pals and said –––
“Here we go, guys! A, One, a two, and a three.”
With that, the four crossed the imaginary line Benji had always set for “No Man’s Land.” They hiked, scampering through underbrush and thick overgrowth for thirty minutes when they came to a clearing. One clearing matched where the feral hogs had attacked. But on this day, it was peaceful. No critters were around. His three dogs’ ears were all on alert. Their eyes scanning the trees around them, but they found nothing to be alarmed over. Benji sat on a log, Bruiser, Oggy and Jackie circled him for a pep talk.
“So far, so good. We’ve been enjoying our beef jerky up to this point, so here are your pieces.”
Benji looked east, feeling out of sequence with his dream. He saw the Bottomless Pits. He decided to walk over to the drop-off. As Bruiser, Oggy, and Jackie looked over the cliff at the water below, it was just like Benji’s dream. Now, Benji started to question whether he had a dream. How did I know what this would look like if I had never been here? He didn’t have an answer, but he still wanted to go further and see what was deeper inside.
As he and the three dogs crept through the brush, another clearing came. As Benji got to the center, he looked up, and there were Sandrock cliffs all around him. On one side was a cave. It seemed like the cave he had spent a night in with his three dogs. Had it been a dream, or was it real? He and the dogs walked up to the cave. It didn’t look as if anything had disturbed the soil in a very long time. No animals, no person, not even a bird. Which Benji thought to be odd.
Benji wanted to examine the watering hole where the Wildcat had been spotted the night of his ‘dream.’ When he got to it, he saw that it was clear as day and ice cold. It was a natural spring. You can drink from this Spring without getting ill. It was not contaminated. The Spring fed a creek; Benji looked at the creek flowing north. It was one of the few creeks in the county to do so. The creek is on his Dad’s farm. He always wondered where the creek water flowed from. Now he knew. And he knew it was Spring fed—another interesting fact.
Benji turned to take the path he and the dogs used to enter the opening. Surprising him, there stood an older man. He wore a white shirt with suspenders paired with pants tucked into knee-high boots and a floppy hat. Behind him stood a mule saddled.
“Young man, you lost?”
He asked.
“No, I don’t think so,”
Benji replied.
“This is on my father’s farm. I have never been brave enough to venture into these parts. I’m here to take a look around.”
The older man laughed.
“Well, my name is Elmer. I have lived out here in these parts all my life. And there ain’t nothing to be afraid of. But, this is the second time you’ve been here with your buddies. I helped you out of here the other night. I was afraid for all four of you. You and your dogs looked like you had stopped and eaten loco weed. That’s the devil, weed, boy; it will make your head spin.”
Benji, looking confused, asked Elmer,
“You said Loco Weed? What is that?”
Elmer rubbed his mule’s head. He propped his hat back on his head. He let out a breath. –
It looks like Polk Salad. That is what gets many people to mistake it for Polk. But it is LOCO. I’ve seen horses and cows do all kinds of crazy on the stuff. I tried to kill it all off my place. But it keeps finding its way back; birds, animals, and such have a way of replanting things.
Benji then asked,
“So, you helped me out of here? “
Elmer was quick to oblige –
“Yep, me and old Sara here; that’s my mule’s name. We were over here trying to find a couple of my hogs that got loose. They retreat to the Blackjack Trees and wallow in the cool soil. Anyway, we were trying to find our hogs, and we came across you guys trying to fight them. You thought they were some third-world alien implant. I got a big laugh out of that.”
Benji, scratching his head, looked at Elmer.
“I don’t remember that part, and I don’t remember meeting you.”
Elmer said he doubted that he would. He was surprised to see the boy back out there ever again. You were having a tough time. I have no idea what drove you to eat loco weed. Benji explained that he was trying to live off the land. He wanted to be a true backwoodsman. He thought he’d be eating something like Polk. He had never heard of loco weed. Elmer told me he’d know, and he’d be smart to stay clear of it. Benji said the dogs ate when Benji wrapped it around a Vienna Sausage.
Elmer said,
‘Now I have heard everything.’
Elmer explained to Benji he was in “No Man’s Land” all of two hours that night.
“I loaded you on old Sara. I took you down to your parents. I told them I found you and the dogs in the woods very sick. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do it again tonight. Benji said no, now that I know what I did, I won’t do it again. Thank you for talking to me.”
Elmer said your big dog there looks like he’s got into some briers. Benji looked, and it appeared just as it had when the injuries from the boars were inflicted on Bruiser. Benji said I need to get him home. He needed to take care of the injury. Benji also need to make sure the other two were okay. Benji thanked Elmer for telling him about what happened. Elmer flashed a peace sign to Benji and told him,
“Well, son, just you and I know. That is all that matters. Of course, these three friends of yours know, but they won’t say anything. Just remember to be careful about chasing make-believe.”
That night, Benji sat on the porch. A bandaged Bruiser rested at his feet. Oggy curled up on the welcome mat. Jackie sat beside him, her eyes watchful and wise. His father stepped outside.
“Heard some wild barking earlier. Everything okay?”
Benji smiled.
“Better than okay. Oggy warned us. Bruiser protected me. And Jackie brought us home.”
Jake scratched Bruiser’s ear.
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves three of the best dogs in the county!”
From that day on, every afternoon, the school bus came to a halt at 3:35. Three dogs waited at the gate. They were ready for the next trail, the next challenge, and the next memory to be made. Because no matter how wild the world became, Benji never hiked alone.
Sunrise sparkled through the trees, casting golden streaks through the ridge of the canyon as a new day began. The dogs had curled up around Benji during the long night after the wildcat screams. Sleep had eluded him, but at least their warmth had kept the cold at bay.
Jackie the Snake Fighter
Benji checked his backpack. Two cans of Vienna sausages. Two bottles of water. Not much, but enough if he rationed carefully. He didn’t know how long it would be before he saw civilization again. He jumped to his feet. He kicked dirt over the glowing embers of the fire. Then he spotted an old bucket lying in the grass. He fetched water from the same spot where he’d seen the wildcats drink and thoroughly doused the coals.
He whistled and called out,
“Okay, guys! Let’s find our way out of here!”
The dogs were now rested after the brutal meeting with the hogs the day before. They let out a few excited barks. They circled around him. They were ready.
“Jackie!”
Benji called out, his voice clear and hopeful.
“Let’s get going and take us home, girl!”
It was Jackie’s moment to lead.
She barked once, turned, and began moving with purpose down a faint trail. Her nose worked the ground like a compass, tracing the path with quiet certainty. She paused now and then to sniff, confirming her route, then pressed ahead.
Benji followed without hesitation.
“Good girl, Jackie. Take us home.”
As they retraced their steps, Benji noticed something he’d missed before. The chaos of the hog attack had distracted him from exploring further. Just east of where that meeting occurred, he saw something new. It was something he’d only ever heard described in hushed tones: the Bottomless Pits.
He turned to the dogs.
“Come on, guys. We’re close. I need to see this.”
He approached the edge of a steep cliff. It was seventy-five feet straight down to a deep, green pool below. The surface was fed by water trickling from the mouth of a sand rock ridge. “That’s a natural spring,” Benji murmured to himself, “surrounded by vegetation and carved into the canyon by wind and rain.” The erosion had shaped the space into something mysterious and timeless. There was no telling how far the pit actually went.
He stood there, staring into the depths. He imagined what happened to those who had entered “No Man’s Land” and never returned. No sane person would ever try a descent.
The dogs looked at each other, almost as if wondering whether this was going to turn into their next mission. They seemed relieved when Benji turned back and said, “Okay, Jackie. Take us on home.”
Their return journey was quieter, more deliberate. The woods themselves seemed to exhale—less ominous now, more at peace, as if the danger had passed.
Eventually, the familiar rise of Miller Hill came into view. Beyond it stood the barn, and flickering on the porch was the warm, welcome glow of a light. As they emerged from the tree line, Benji spotted people in the clearing. A search party—his father among them, his mother as well. They had been looking everywhere… except in the place no one dared go.
Benji’s dad stepped ahead quickly, his face a mix of relief and frustration.
“Son,”
he said,
“you knew that area was off-limits. No one goes back there. Why did you?”
Benji, still trembling slightly from nerves and exhaustion, answered quietly,
“I wasn’t looking for anything, really. But now I know what’s back there.”
His father narrowed his eyes.
“What? What did you find? No one ever comes back.”
Benji looked him in the eye.
“Feral hogs. Wildcats bigger than our dogs. And pits that look bottomless. I figure the people who disappeared… they didn’t make it out because they were walking in the dark. They either fell in—or the hogs got to them.”
The searchers stood silently for a moment, absorbing his words. Then came relief, and the reunions began.
Benji made a point to thank everyone who’d come looking for him. One by one. Then, he helped lift each of the dogs into the back of his father’s pickup. This time, he insisted they ride up front.
Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie settled into the cab like visiting royalty, each peering out the windows with pride and dignity. They had saved Benji, and he knew they deserved far more than a truck ride.
The truck rolled down the familiar dirt road toward home. Benji sat in the open bed under the early morning sun. He leaned back. He opened his last two cans of Vienna sausages. Then, he drank from one of his remaining bottles of water. He was there, alone in the quiet. The wind brushed his face. The trees grew smaller behind him. He finally relaxed.
He had made it out of No Man’s Land.
Benji would never forget what he found there. But even better, he wouldn’t forget how his three pals had worked together to take care of him. And when he got home he would tell his dad about the dogs doing the great things they did. He also wanted to repay his canine friends in some way. In Chapter 5, Benji repays them and that is how the story ends in an unexpected way.
How can this story end in any unexpected way? A boy and his dogs have made it out of No Man’s Land. They are safe, aren’t they? We all are, aren’t we? Or are we? What Chapter five holds will have you asking questions of your own. It looks like the dogs will still be looking for a tree or two come Chapter Five!
Let’s get back to our story. –– Benji stood in the middle of the woods, heart racing, with three feral hogs growling and snorting nearby. Jackie had lost the scent trail. She couldn’t find the way home. Benji had just thrown away his only peace offering: the beef jerky. The hogs tore through the jerky in seconds. Benji and the three dogs tried to figure out what direction to go. But, now those hogs had regained interest in something more satisfying—the boy.
Oggy circled and snapped at the first boar, trying to keep it distracted. Jackie stood stiff and alert. She barked furiously at the second one. Her tail was rigid and her fur was raised. She positioned herself between the beast and Benji.
Bruiser, Dad’s Shadow
But it was Bruiser who took the lead.
With a thunderous bark, he lunged at the second boar. The clash was brutal. Bruiser’s sheer size and strength gave him an edge. Still, the wild boar was enraged and dangerous. It slashed with its tusks.
Benji screamed,
“No! Bruiser!”
But Bruiser didn’t back down. He planted his feet and forced the boar back with muscle and fury. Oggy darted in to nip at the animal’s hind legs while Jackie’s relentless barking finally drove the creature into retreat.
Within moments, the two remaining boars, startled and overwhelmed, turned tail and vanished into the trees.
Bruiser limped back, a fresh gash on his shoulder. Benji dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around him, whispering,
“You saved us. You’re the bravest dog in the world.”
The three dogs surrounded Benji, panting heavily—not from fear, but from duty fulfilled. They had done their job.
The sun had dipped lower now, and the smell of distant cooking reminded Benji of home. He hoped Jackie would catch a scent that would guide them back—but no such luck.
They were still stuck in No Man’s Land.
Benji sighed and looked at his companions.
“Well, boys… looks like we’re gonna be here for a while. As well find a safe place to rest.”
The fading daylight painted the woods in long shadows. The path behind them had become a confusing tangle of trees and underbrush.
“I don’t know where we are,”
Benji admitted.
Oggy was licking his sore paws. Bruiser winced with every step. Jackie stood alert—ears perked, head rotating like a radar dish, listening for signs of danger.
Benji reached into his backpack and pulled out his trusty binoculars. Scanning the area, he spotted something—a cave etched into the canyon wall, not far off. It resembled an ancient hollow carved out of sandstone by the water long ago. If they can reach it safely, it can make a decent shelter for the night.
He pulled out a handkerchief. He tore it in half. He tied one piece to a high branch to mark the location.
Oggy took point. Bruiser limped beside Benji. Jackie stuck close this time and carefully marked her trail. They made their way to the cave.
Ten minutes later, they arrived at the entrance. The cave was shallow and quiet, with no signs of animal tracks inside. It looked safe—for now.
Benji gathered dead wood from the forest floor and built a small fire at the cave’s entrance. As the flickering flames grew, casting dancing shadows, the four of them settled in.
But Benji had a surprise.
He hadn’t given all the food to the hogs. He had two cans of Vienna sausages tucked in his backpack. They were beneath a rolled-up poncho. His dad always said to keep them in case of emergencies.
He popped open a can. Instantly, three sets of ears perked up.
Benji smiled and shared the sausages with the dogs, eating slowly and grateful that they had something to eat. But he couldn’t help wondering: How are we going to get out of this mess?
As night fell, the forest faded into darkness. The stars lit up the sky, and the wind rustled the trees outside. The cave offered shelter from the breeze, and the dogs took turns keeping watch while Benji dozed beside the fire.
At around three in the morning, a sharp, blood-curdling scream echoed through the canyon.
All three dogs leaped up, growling and tense. Benji jolted awake. The fire had burned down to glowing coals.
Another scream—closer this time.
Benji grabbed a long stick and jabbed it into the embers, trying to spark a flame. The dogs stood bristling, their fur raised, eyes locked on the darkness beyond.
This is the most dangerous moment yet—except maybe for the hogs.
Benji fumbled through his backpack and found a small flashlight. He switched it on and swept the beam across the canyon.
There, near a shallow watering hole, stood two full-grown wildcats—the biggest Benji had ever seen. Easily 130 pounds each. But the barking, the firelight, and the beam of the flashlight startled them. They bolted, disappearing into the trees.
Benji sat back down, heart pounding. Sleep was impossible now.
Thinking to himself –––
Was something else out there?
Has anyone even started looking for him yet?
He’d never been gone this long.
He sighed and pulled the blanket around him tighter.
“When I get back,”
he whispered to himself
“I’m gonna be in big trouble. For good this time.”
But for now, he is still in No Man’s Land.
And he is lost.
They called it No Man’s Land for a reason. Legend has it, no man who ever entered those woods was seen again. That little detail? It’s something Benji overlooked when planning his latest adventure. Rumor has it. No search party will go in after him. No one’s willing to take the chance they will not come back either. So maybe Benji ought to start thinking about an extended stay. Is anyone even organizing a search? Or will they just do a flyover, check a few boxes, and call it good? Check back tomorrow as the story continues—because things in No Man’s Land are only getting stranger.
The trail that day led into Cottonwood Hollow. It was a deep gully nestled between two ridges. The area was thick with ancient trees and the scent of cool, damp earth. Benji had finally summoned the courage to enter what the kids around the farm called “No Man’s Land.”
Oggy Doggy, The Best Friend A Family Ever Had
Oggy darted ahead, barking sharply as he flushed out a covey of quail.
“Good boy!”
Benji laughed, breaking into a jog behind him.
Bruiser trotted beside him, his heavy paws crunching over dry leaves. Every time a twig snapped, his muscular body tensed. If the wind shifted, he was ready to protect until he decided there was no danger.
Jackie moved like a ghost, glancing back from time to time, her black-and-white tail swaying gently. She paused here and there to mark tree trunks, just in case they needed help finding the way back.
About halfway through the Hollow, Oggy let out a sharp yip and froze—body crouched low, fur bristling.
Benji halted.
“What is it, boy?”
Then he saw it. A feral boar was rooting near the creek bed. Its coarse hair rose. Its tusks caught the last golden light of the afternoon. Oggy growled, weaving left and right, trying to distract it.
Bruiser stepped in front of Benji and barked once—low and commanding. The boar noticed the big dog and paused, nostrils flaring.
“Back up… slowly,”
Benji whispered.
They had only taken a few steps when Jackie barked behind them. Benji spun around.
A second boar had crept up from the rear.
Trapped.
Benji’s heart pounded. Feral hogs? He’d never seen any this close to the farm before. His dad’s hogs were penned and docile. These? These had tusks. And just as panic set in, a third hog emerged from the brush, snorting and stomping.
Think, Benji. Think.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pouch of beef jerky—the snack he’d saved for later. Tearing it open, he waved a piece in the air.
The hogs’ heads turned toward the scent. Without wasting a second, Benji hurled the entire pouch as far as he can into the underbrush.
It worked.
All three hogs charged the pouch, squealing and shoving as they fought over the jerky.
Benji snapped his fingers. The dogs hustled back to his side, and together, they crept away.
But now, the sun was dipping low behind the ridge. Shadows stretched across the Hollow, and the light had grown dim. In the chaos, Benji had lost track of their path.
Everything looked the same.
He called softly,
“Jackie, take us home.”
Jackie trotted out, sniffing at nearby logs and bushes, searching for the scent trail she had left. But her markings were gone—wiped away. The boars, rubbing against the trunks and rolling in the undergrowth, had erased everything she’d left behind.
She circled wider, nose to the ground—but still, nothing.
Benji stood in the middle of the woods. Three feral hogs were still growling and grunting in the distance. They were gathered around a torn bag of jerky.
This wasn’t the bedtime story anyone wanted to hear. Was Benji going to stand there—or scoot?Benji doesn’t have beef jerky. What will he and his pals eat for supper if they have to spend the night in the woods?Check back tomorrow. Read Chapter Three to see if he finds his way out.Or will the boy and his dogs get hungry!
Bruiser, Oggy and Jackie, three friends that protected Benji.
Every day at exactly 3:35 p.m., the yellow school bus rumbled down the dusty country road. Its brakes squealed in protest. It stopped at the gate of the Miller farm. Waiting by the fence—tails wagging, ears alert—stood three loyal dogs: Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie.
Oggy, a wiry shepherd-collie mix, zipped back and forth like a bolt of lightning, always the first to move. Bruiser was a proud and imposing German shepherd. His stare could make thunder retreat. He sat like a sentry. His eyes were fixed on the distant tree line. Jackie was a small but wise rat terrier. She lay in the shade, her head tilted. It was as if she was listening to the wind for stories.
Benji stepped off the bus. His backpack bounced and his heart was full of energy. He called out,
“Who’s ready for a hike?”
The dogs barked in harmony. Their daily ritual had begun—school ended, and the adventure began.
The woods, hills, and winding creeks beyond the Miller farm stretched wild and untamed. They were alive with beauty and mystery. There was a kind of danger only country kids and creatures could sense. Benji’s father trusted the dogs with more than just companionship. They each had a job:
Oggy, ever eager, raced ahead to flush out snakes, spook wild hogs, or alert the team to anything unusual. Bruiser stayed at Benji’s side, calm and formidable—his job was protection. Jackie had a sharp nose and clever instincts. She always brought up the rear. She tracked every step and memorized the path home.
Together, they were more than a team. They were guardians: a boy and his dogs, bound by loyalty, instinct, and love.
They had explored nearly every trail across the farm. But there was one place they had never dared to enter.
Benji called it No Man’s Land.
Even the cattle avoided it. Horses snorted and veered away from its edges. Dense with tangled brush, towering trees, and sheer, jagged cliffs, it lay beyond the farthest bend of the creek. You couldn’t see more than a few yards into it, even when standing on the embankment across the water. It was as if the woods had secrets they weren’t ready to share.
Sometimes, the team would gather at that high bank and stare into the thicket. Benji would speak softly as if trying not to disturb whatever is listening.
“What’s back there?”
he’d wonder aloud.
“Nobody’s ever gone in. But one day, we’ll be brave enough to cross that creek and find out.”
He told the dogs his plan: the safest way in would be through Cottonwood Hollow. If they cut through the grove, they would reach No Man’s Land without being seen from the road—or the house.
Before they set off, a familiar sound echoed across the pasture—the dinner bell.
Its clang was sharp and sure, and the dogs didn’t need to be told twice. The four companions turned for home. They momentarily forgot their trail. The promise of a warm meal and kind voices led them back.
They didn’t cross into No Man’s Land that day.
But they would.
And when they did, they’d uncover something none of them would ever have imagined.
Those dogs need to be fed. And it’s a good thing Benji got them home in time for ‘supper.’ Check back for Chapter Two. We’ll find out if the Team gets brave enough to hike into No Man’s Land!
Meet the Trail Guardians: A Boy, Three Dogs, and the Adventures That Bind Them
In the quiet stretch of Oklahoma back-country, the hills roll gently. The wind carries the scent of cedar and earth. A school bus door creaks open every afternoon at 3:35 p.m. Out steps a boy named Benji. He is full of curiosity and grit. He loves the wild places that lie just beyond the fence line. But he’s not alone. Waiting faithfully at the gate are his three loyal companions—Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie.
To most folks, they’re just dogs. But to Benji—and anyone lucky enough to witness them in action—they’re guardians. Each has a purpose. Each with a soul as big as the land they roam.
Oggy is the scout. He is a lightning-fast border collie. His job is to stay out front. He sniffs out threats and leads the way with sharp instinct. Bruiser, the muscle-bound mastiff mix with a thunderous bark and a heart of gold, never strays from Benji’s side. He is the protector. And Jackie, the wise and steady golden retriever, always takes the rear. She remembers every twist and turn in the woods. She is the quiet navigator. She ensures they always find their way back home.
What begins as a simple after-school tradition—just a boy and his dogs hiking the countryside—becomes something far greater. These four face the untamed wilderness. They discover the secrets of the land. They defend each other against the dangers that lurk in the shadows. These include wild boars, treacherous terrain, and even the unpredictable spirit of nature itself.
But this story isn’t just about survival—it’s about trust and purpose. It’s about the powerful bond that exists between a child and the animals who would give anything to protect him. It’s about finding your place in the world, knowing your role, and honoring it with everything you’ve got. It’s about how the world can feel vast and uncertain. Having the right ones by your side can make all the difference.
The Trail Guardians is a heartwarming, adventurous tale set against the backdrop of rural America. It is perfect for readers who believe in the magic of animals. It also appeals to those who appreciate the courage of kids and the timeless rhythm of life in the country.
📅 Mark your calendars—Chapter One begins Tuesday, June 17th!
Watch for the first of five exciting chapters. Enjoy this engaging short read as we count down to the first day of summer!
Join Benji, Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie on their journey. They explore wild places where memories are made. Loyalty is tested, and legends are born.
This is only the beginning.
The story is growing, the trails are calling, and the dogs are ready!
Our dog Otis is a handful—and that’s putting it mildly. He’s been part of our lives for over eight months now, and frankly, he has us wrapped around his paw. That’s how I see it, anyway.
Each morning, I dig into news articles. Meanwhile, Otis curls up on my lap. He looks like the innocent angel he most definitely is not. Don’t be fooled by the calm exterior—he’s always on high alert. He knows the sounds of the mail truck, the delivery van, and anything that dare to approach our house. With every rumble outside, he barks thunderously. He is desperate to storm the front lines. If only that pesky screened door weren’t in his way.
A simple knock on the door transforms Otis into a spinning, barking whirlwind. Imagine a Tasmanian devil with a bark louder than his bite (but don’t tell him that). He’s so protective that we often must hold him back when company arrives. Sometimes, he gets so worked up. He earns a timeout in his kennel. There, he huffs in protest like a disgruntled dragon.
Sunday was a special day—Otis got to join us for a visit with friends, one of his all-time favorite activities. He made nice with their dog, at least at first. But soon, his sly, bullish side took over. He snatched the ball and refused to return it, parading it like a trophy, asserting his love for socializing.
After a long day of play, Otis stayed awake the entire ride home, refusing to miss a moment. He joined us for some late-night TV, eyes heavy but stubbornly open. When bedtime finally arrived, he collapsed into a deep sleep filled with dreams. He was chasing tennis balls. He also was reliving his glorious day of dominance and friendship. I like to think he also dreamed of the day he outsmarted the mail truck.
It was a night like any other in the deep woods outside Willow Creek. Forty years ago—give or take—a man and his dog set off for one of their usual late-night hunts. The man, grizzled and silent, kissed his wife on the forehead and muttered something about a long run. She barely looked up from her sewing. She was accustomed to his absences. He needed to run beneath the moonlight with only a rifle and his hound for company. She didn’t ask where he went. He never said.
The forest swallowed them quickly. Trees leaned in like eavesdropping strangers, and the undergrowth whispered beneath their boots and paws. The dog was a wiry black mutt with a white streak down its spine. It caught the scent of something just beyond the bend. It bolted. The man, cursing but grinning, gave chase.
They ran deeper and deeper into the overgrown trail for what felt like miles until the land suddenly disappeared.
The dog reached the edge of the cliff first. It barked, wild and electric, then dove headlong into the dark.
The man reached the edge just in time to see nothing at all. No bark. No rustle. There is just silence and blackness below. Without hesitation—without fear—he followed.
And that’s where the story ends, at least in the world we know.
The man awoke beside his dog in another place—somewhere between dream and fog. The stars above were fixed in unfamiliar constellations, and the air hummed with a silence too perfect to be real. He stood, brushed off dust that wasn’t dust, and called out.
No echo returned.
For years—or was it minutes?—he and the dog wandered this pale mirror of the forest they once knew. Sometimes, they saw flickers of their old lives. His wife was crying at the hearth. His brother was digging through the old footlocker for the will. But they couldn’t speak, they couldn’t reach, they only watched.
The man no longer aged. The dog’s coat remained pristine. Together, they waited—for what, neither capable of saying.
Then, one night, they heard something rustling through the brush ahead. They walked a trail that hadn’t been there before. The dog tensed. The man raised his hand. A shape moved—slowly, purposefully.
It was another hunter. Rifle slung over his shoulder. Dog at his side. Eyes vacant. He looked familiar.
The man called out. The hunter looked through him, then walked past.
The dog growled, uneasy.
And from the darkness behind them, a second pair of footsteps began to follow. They had found the lost forest of hunters who had died without a place to go.
I have many stories about growing up. Sometimes, I wonder how I fit everything I did into the years leading to where I am now. As a young teen, I always felt my family was boring. We never seemed to do anything special. But when I share our family stories today, people tell me they spark their forgotten memories. They bring back moments they thought were lost.
One such story involves our neighbors, Bill and his wife, Marie. They rescued every stray dog they found and invited each one into their growing pack.
I first met Bill while riding my bike home from a friend’s house. He had stopped his car to get the mail from his old roadside mailbox. I couldn’t help but stop and say hello. I asked him where he lived. He pointed across the road toward a distant antenna. It stood tall above the trees. “Right under that antenna,” he said with a smile. I had watched that antenna for years. It was massive. It perched on rotating poles to turn the shortwave and CB radio antennas in any direction he wanted. Seeing my interest, Bill invited me to visit the next day—but told me to check with my parents first.
I didn’t know it then, but Bill had been instrumental in bringing electricity to our area through a rural cooperative. He’d helped light up countless homes across several counties. My parents permitted me to visit but warned me not to overstay my welcome.
The next day after school, I finished my chores and pedaled toward Bill and Marie’s. As I left the paved road and turned onto the dirt path, barking erupted. A pack of dogs rushed to greet me, but they wagged their tails instead of attacking and licked my hands. It was like I was the first human they’d seen in years. They crowded around me, gently herding me up the porch steps. I reached for the doorbell, but before pressing it, the dogs nudged me ahead, practically carrying me into the house.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
I called out.
Marie’s sweet voice answered from the kitchen,
“I bet you’re JD’s boy. Bill told me you’d be stopping by. He’ll be out in a minute—say hello to the family.”
She gestured toward the dogs as she named them individually, expecting me to remember each name. There had to be twenty dogs in that living room alone. As I looked around, another thought puzzled me: how did she know I was my dad’s son? I hadn’t even introduced myself yet. A moment later, Bill entered, smoking his pipe, followed by four more dogs circling his legs. He shook my hand warmly and led me into his den, where I would spend hours learning from him. Bill introduced me to the world of shortwave radio and explained how to get a license. He even lent me a Morse code training record to help me prepare for the exam.
But radios were just the beginning. Bill showed me his greenhouse, where he taught me how starting seedlings early gives a head start in spring. One day, he took me to another outbuilding—a woodworking shop filled with the scent of freshly cut lumber. There, he showed me how he crafted furniture and home goods, staining and treating each piece with care.
When I was almost sixteen, Bill revealed yet another surprise: a mechanic’s shop hidden behind his house. Inside sat an old Datsun pickup.
“I haven’t driven it in years,”
Bill admitted,
“but it’s still here.”
I could feel the gears turning in my head. I was about to get my driver’s license, and that old truck looked like the perfect first car. Before I said anything, I knew I had to check with my dad. When I asked, my dad said,
“We can look at it.”
To me, that was a yes.
The next day, I returned to Bill’s and asked if he might be interested in selling the truck. Bill chuckled.
“I never thought about selling it—but if the price is right, maybe.”
“I’ll need a car when I get my license,”
I told him.
“And my dad said we could take a look.”
“Bring your dad down,”
Bill grinned,
“and we’ll talk.”
Dad and I stood in Bill’s mechanic shop a week later, looking over the Datsun. Bill puffed his pipe thoughtfully.
“It ran fine when I parked it. Might go ten miles, might go another hundred thousand. Hard to say with an old truck.”
He smiled at Dad.
“You know how it is with cars.”
Then Bill turned to me.
“I’ll talk price with the boy. You’re too good a horse trader for me to haggle with.”
My dad laughed.
“You know what you’ve got in your savings,”
he told me.
“Don’t spend more than that—and don’t forget tax, title, and insurance.”
At that moment, I felt the weight of adulthood settling on my shoulders. I bartered with Bill for ten minutes, careful with every dollar. Later, I discovered an interesting fact about Bill and my dad. They had been late-night radio buddies for years. They even arranged for a state newspaper courier to toss them papers at a secret highway drop each morning.
I kept visiting Bill and Marie for years. As I grew older, I began to understand Marie’s quiet burdens. They were things I wish I’d been capable of helping with then. I only understood them now, knowing what I know. Bill and his beloved dogs carried on their calm, legendary life on the edge of town.
No one else ever visited them—not like I did. And sometimes, I wonder if that had been the plan all along.
Bill and Marie passed away in the 1990s. Per their wishes, their property was sold to help the local community center. Their home, once full of vibrant life with voices, radio signals, and loyal dogs, became part of something greater. It was destined to be that way.
Every time I turn on a radio, I still feel them with me. When I smell fresh-cut wood or see an old pickup truck, I also think of them. Their stories live on—in mine.
Growing up, we had dogs that made our lives richer in ways I’m still discovering today. There were three of them: a St. Bernard–Collie mix, a German Shepherd, and a Rat Terrier—Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie.
These three would become my best friends throughout my childhood.
The first to arrive was Oggy. He was a big, playful dog who loved to wrestle in the front yard for hours. But more than anything, he was our guardian. Oggy knew his role: to watch over us. Every afternoon, he met us at the gate when the school bus dropped us off and escorted us home. No stranger ever approached our house without Oggy ensuring they had our blessing to be there.
Next came Jackie, a spry little hound named after a friend’s dog. Jackie quickly became our best mouser and a fierce snake fighter, teaming up with Oggy on countless backyard missions.
Finally, Bruiser joined the pack—a German Shepherd with a name tougher than his heart. Although Bruiser had been obedience-trained and sounded intimidating, he was naturally gentle and shy. But when it mattered, he showed real courage, standing shoulder to shoulder with Oggy and Jackie to guard our home.
By age 13, the three of them followed me everywhere. We hiked deep into the forests near my dad’s ranger station, trekking miles through wildland few others dared to explore. Jackie scouted ahead, flushing out surprises. Oggy stayed close, my sturdy shield. And Bruiser brought up the rear, quietly ensuring nothing came up behind us.
Looking back, I realize they created a cone of safety around me, a living circle of love and protection. Whether I was on foot, on horseback, or driving a tractor, my trio was always there. They were my constant companions through childhood adventures.
Sometimes, we’d stop at a fallen log and sit together. I would talk to them about my troubles—problems that seemed so large at 13—and they would listen in silence. When I stood up again, the issues felt either solved or less heavy.
We would set off again every afternoon after school unless I had work to do for my dad. If I did have chores, they stayed right by my side, enduring the labor with me.
When I turned 17, we lost Oggy. His arthritis had left him nearly unable to walk, and his eyes had gone cloudy. With love and sorrow, my dad had a veterinarian help him cross over to a better place.
Jackie passed a few years later while I was away from home, already carving my path in the world. And then, in 1984, Bruiser’s body gave out after a long struggle with an incurable skin condition. After months of holding on, my parents made the painful but loving decision to let him go.
Those three dogs had been with me through it all. They ran beside me along ridges. They chased waterfalls. They climbed cliffs to the highest points of the land. They sat with me as we watched the world stretch out for miles.
Jackie once fought off a copperhead snake. She suffered terrible bites that swelled her head to twice its size. Yet, she survived and came running with us again. Oggy and Bruiser learned to shadow me unseen while I rode horseback, quietly blocking any stranger who came too close. It wasn’t training. It was friendship—the kind that instinctively protects without being asked.
In the end, the pain became too much for them to bear. Love helped us let them go. It broke our hearts. I’m grateful my dad made those final decisions because, to me, they weren’t just dogs.
They were my most faithful friends, making my childhood a place of wonder, safety, and unconditional love.
Huey sat in the corner of the kennel, ears perked, eyes darting toward the metal gate between them and freedom. Max, his trusted partner, paced back and forth, tail flicking with nervous energy. Around them, the others—Spike, Bella, and Rufus—pretended to be sleeping, but they were all listening, waiting for the signal.
“Tonight’s the night,”
Huey whispered.
“The screws turn in at nine. We give ’em an hour, then we move.”
Max nodded.
“Bella, you’re on distraction. Get that yapper down the row to start barking. When the guard checks on him, we make our move.”
Bella wagged her tail.
“Piece of kibble.”
Spike chimed in,
“I got the latch covered. I’ve been watching the humans do it for weeks. I think I can pop it.”
“Good,”
Huey said.
“Once we’re out, we head for the back gate. Rufus, you still got that big brute act down?”
Rufus grinned, his jowls flopping.
“One good growl and the yard mutt will scatter.”
The plan was perfect. They had worked out every detail. The humans thought they were dumb dogs, but they’d prove them wrong tonight.
The lights went out, and the night settled over the pound. A low growl rumbled from the cage at the far end. Right on cue, the little yapper started up. Bella joined in, then Spike, then the whole row. Sure enough, heavy boots clomped down the hall. The guard muttered something about “dumb mutts” and stomped off to quiet them down.
“Go time,”
Huey whispered.
Spike reached through the bars, jiggling the latch—a click. The gate swung open. One by one, they slipped out, moving fast and low, paws silent on the concrete. They were almost to the back gate when Max skidded to a stop.
“What is it?”
Huey hissed.
Max’s eyes gleamed in the dark. His tail quivered.
“Bone.”
Huey sighed.
“Forget it, we gotta—”
“Bone,”
Max repeated, but the others saw it, too. A big, juicy, perfectly gnawed bone, lying right there, almost like fate had placed it in their path.
Rufus whined.
“It’s beautiful.”
“No time!”
Huey barked.
“We gotta go!”
Max, still, had already lunged for it. Spike growled, trying to shove him aside. Bella snapped at them both. Chaos erupted. Snarls and yips filled the air.
Lights flicked on. A door slammed. The humans were coming.
“Run!”
Huey yelled, but it was too late.
A net came down over Rufus. Bella yelped as a leash snapped around her neck. Huey dodged left, but a firm hand grabbed his collar.
Max? He was still chewing.
The next day, they sat in their cages, tucked tails, watching the humans talk about “bad dogs” and “extra security.”
Max sighed, staring at the bone still sitting outside the fence.
“Worth it.”
Huey groaned.
“Next time, we leave you behind.”
But they all knew there would be a next time. Because a good dog never quits, and a great dog always has another plan.
A small town was nestled by rolling hills and surrounded by fields of wildflowers. In it, there lived a scrappy little puppy named Patches. He was a mix of this and that, with one ear that stood up and the other that flopped down. Patches was small for his age. But, he had something that set him apart. He leaped higher than any dog anyone had ever seen.
At first, no one noticed Patches’ gift. He spent his days chasing butterflies and rolling in the grass like any other puppy. It was a sunny afternoon. The town’s children were setting up a lemonade stand. A gust of wind came through and carried their banner high into the branches of an old oak tree.
“Oh no!”
“How will anyone know about our lemonade?”
Cried Emily, the youngest of the children.
Patches, who had been snoozing nearby, perked up. He tilted his head, wagged his tail, and, without hesitation, bounded toward the tree. He made a mighty leap and soared through the air. He snatched the banner in his teeth. Then, he landed gracefully on the ground.
The children cheered.
“Patches saved the day!”
From that moment on, Patches became the town’s little hero. Patches fetched lost kites from rooftops. He rescued baby birds from precarious ledges. Simply bringing smiles with his high-flying antics was enough to prove his worth. Patches proved that being small didn’t mean you couldn’t do big things.
One day, during the annual Harvest Festival, a gust of wind toppled the mayor’s prized pumpkin from the display podium. The enormous gourd rolled straight toward a table of pies, threatening to ruin the event. The crowd gasped.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Patches darted into action. He landed on the pumpkin with a mighty leap, planting his tiny paws firmly to slow its roll. The pumpkin came to a stop just inches from the table. The crowd erupted into applause, and the mayor declared Patches the town’s official mascot.
From then on, Patches wore a little red cape stitched by Emily’s grandmother. Wherever he went, he reminded everyone that sometimes, the smallest among us can do the most extraordinary things.
From the moment Ben and Steve walked into the shelter, Otis knew they were his people. It wasn’t just how they crouched down to his level. It was the warmth in their eyes and the promise in their voices.
“You’re coming home with us,”
Steve had said. Otis had wagged his tail so hard he nearly toppled over. He vowed then and there to be the best protector any family ask for.
Life in his new home was nothing short of paradise. Otis had a cozy bed by the fireplace, more toys than he can chew, and an endless supply of love. But what truly mattered to him was his duty to keep Ben and Steve safe. He took it upon himself to investigate every rustle in the bushes, every knock at the door. No leaf dared to blow towards his masters without Otis standing his ground.
Otis’s vigilance, nevertheless, had its challenges. After one too many encounters with a growling Otis, the mail carrier learned to toss packages from a distance. Neighborhood passerby’s hoped drop off leaflets and country club newsletters. They were met with a flurry of barks so fierce they often retreated before reaching the door.
Things came to a head one sunny Saturday when their neighbor Marlene, visited. Otis had met her once before and didn’t trust her an inch. She was too loud, animated, and far too close to his people to his liking. When Marlene leaned in to hug Steve, Otis darted between them, barking his warning. Steve scooped him up, carrying him to the laundry room for a “time out.”
“Otis, you need to relax,”
Steve said, his voice equal parts exasperation and affection. Otis stared back, unconvinced. Who would protect them if he wasn’t on duty?
During one memorable stormy night, Otis proved why his protectiveness wasn’t just a quirk—it was his calling. The wind howled, rain lashed against the windows, and the house creaked under the storm’s force. Otis lay at the foot of the bed, his ears perked. Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the backyard.
Ben and Steve bolted upright. Otis was already off the bed. He growled as he raced to the source of the noise. They found him at the patio door. He barked furiously at a tree branch. The branch had broken off and slammed into the house. While it wasn’t an intruder, Otis’s readiness reassured them that no danger would catch them off guard.
Over time, Ben and Steve learned to appreciate Otis’s protective nature and quirks. They worked with a trainer to help him distinguish between threats and friendly visitors, but his fierce loyalty never wavered. Otis accepted his ‘time outs’ with dignity. He understood that even the most dedicated guardians needed to let their pack relax occasionally.
Otis knew one thing for certain in his heart. Ben and Steve had rescued him from a lonely life. He would spend every day making sure they were loved, protected, and never alone. His love for them was as deep as the ocean, and his loyalty as unyielding as the mountains.
You can welcome a pet into your life if you have the love and resources. Reach out to your local animal shelter. Explore adoption if you’re ready for this commitment. Before taking this step, make sure your heart and home have plenty of space. Your budget should also be ready to support a forever family member. A new family member is waiting for you!
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