**Diary Entry**
The rain that evening fell like the heavens had split apart. Not the gentle mist that soothes the fields or the light drizzle kids splash about inno, this was the relentless, drenching kind that floods drains, churns earth into thick sludge, and leaves everything chilled to the bone.
Id stayed late at the garage again. Jobs had stacked upa knackered gearbox in an old Land Rover, a finicky carburettor on a blokes hatchback, and the endless paperwork cluttering my desk. The storm only made it worse. Every few minutes, the roof shuddered under the downpour, and the yard outside had turned into a shallow lake.
I was just about to lock up when I heard ita noise that didnt belong to the storm. Not the drip of a leak or the groan of the old metal door. It was faint, nearly lost beneath the thundera quiet whimper.
I held still, straining to listen. There it was again, coming from near the scrap heap in the yard.
Grabbing my raincoat, I stepped outside. Water sloshed around my ankles, dark with oil and dirt. Peering through the rain, I followed the soundand then I spotted her.
A little dog, no bigger than a shoebox, curled up in the mud. Her fur was matted to her skin, her eyes barely open. She trembled so violently I could see every rib.
My chest tightened. Without thinking, I bent down and scooped her up. She was lighttoo light, as if she hadnt eaten properly in days. She barely lifted her head, but she pressed against me like she was clinging for dear life.
Inside, I grabbed an old rag from the workbench and bundled her up. Shed stopped whimpering, but her shivering hadnt eased. I set her on a stool near the heater and crouched beside her, at a loss for what to do next.
Well sort it out, I muttered, more to steady myself than anything. But the truth was, shed already sorted it for me.
The next morning, I arrived early, half-expecting her to be gone. Maybe shed vanished in the nightmaybe she hadnt made it. But when I walked in, there she was, sitting by the stove, head tilted as if shed been waiting.
I let out a nervous chuckle. Alright, little one?
When I reached for my spanner to get back to work, I froze. It wasnt where Id left it. Instead, the dog trotted over, the spanner clamped in her tiny jaws. She dropped it at my feet and wagged her tail.
I blinked. Well, Ill be damned.
Thats when I named her. Maisie. Because even covered in filth, even trembling in the storm, she reminded me of something small but unbreakablesomething determined to thrive against the odds.
From then on, Maisie was never far from my side.
She followed me around the garage, weaving between tool chests and stacks of tyres. In winter, she curled up by the stove, nose twitching at the scent of engine oil and worn leather. And whenever customers came in, shed trot right up to them, tail wagging, greeting them like old friends.
Whos this then? theyd ask, bending down to scratch her ears.
This is Maisie, Id say, grinning. Shes the real boss.
Theyd laugh, but it wasnt far from the truth. Maisie changed the place. Before her, it had just been workgrease, noise, and long hours that left me drained. But with Maisie padding about, the garage felt alive. Customers lingered, chatting with her at their feet. Some even brought biscuits just for her.
There was one regular, old Mr. Thompson, whod been bringing his van to me for years. Hed lost his wife the year before, and grief had hollowed him out. The first time he saw Maisie, he didnt smile. But the next time, she leapt into his van before I could stop her. I rushed over, ready to apologise, but he just sat there, chuckling as she licked his cheek.
Dont fret, he said quietly. Havent laughed like that in ages.
Moments like that made me realise Maisie wasnt just my dogshe belonged to all of us.
Sometimes, in the evenings, Id sit by the stove with her head resting on my boot. Id think back to that stormy night, to how frail shed looked, half-buried in mud. I thought I was saving her, giving her a fresh start. But the truth was, she saved me.
The garage had been my whole world, and though I loved the work, it could be a lonely life. Maisie changed that. She filled the quiet with warmth, the cold nights with company, the long days with a bit of joy.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the garage, I found myself saying aloud, Funny thing, Maisie. Thought I took you in because you needed me. Turns out, I needed you.
She just wagged her tail, as if shed known all along.
Now, whenever the bell above the door jingles, Maisies the first one there. She trots ahead, ears pricked, tail up, ready to greet whoever walks in. Some come for an MOT or a quick fix. But Ive realised plenty just drop by to see her.
And I dont mind one bit. Because Maisie fits right inoil-stained floors, battered tools, and all. She runs the place in her own way: not with spanners and sockets, but with a wag of her tail, a spark in her eyes, and the quiet reminder that even in the muddiest storms, theres always something worth saving.
