At dawn on the farm, peace gave way to danger. A pack of wolves had crept close, their eyes fixed on the weakest of the flock—a mother ewe and her trembling newborn lambs.
I hadn’t seen them. But my dog had.
Without a sound from me, he charged forward, planting himself between the circling wolves and the fragile lives behind him. Hackles raised, chest out, he became a wall of courage on four legs. The wolves tested him, lunging, growling, probing for weakness. But he never moved. One against many—and still, he was enough.
Minutes dragged like hours until, at last, the wolves gave up, slipping back into the trees. The danger had passed. My dog didn’t strut in victory or look to me for praise. Instead, he lay beside the lambs, letting them press into his fur, their small bodies finding safety in his warmth.
That day, I understood him differently. He wasn’t just a pet or a working dog. He was family. Protector. A heart bound to ours not by command, but by love fierce enough to face down fear itself.
Because sometimes love is not gentle. Sometimes it is a shield.
