I was already two hours behind when I pulled up to Wren Avenue, my last delivery before I could call it a day. The sun was sagging low, melting into the trees, and my shirt was clinging to my back like a second skin. I hadn’t eaten anything but a lukewarm protein bar since noon, and the AC in the delivery van had wheezed its last breath sometime around Maple Street. My left turn signal had been blinking non-stop for thirty minutes. Honestly, I was one unpaid traffic ticket away from a full-blown meltdown.
All I had to do was drop off a small, padded envelope. Easy. But Wren Avenue was always too quiet, like the kind of quiet that makes your skin tighten around your bones. One of those dead-end streets where you’d expect to find a lemonade stand and a hidden body in the same afternoon.
I stepped out of the van with the package in one hand and my phone in the other, confirming the address. 408 Wren. Beige siding, blue shutters, sad-looking porch swing. I didn’t even hear him coming.
He was on me before I had a chance to react—tall, heavy, with a smell like sweat and old cigarettes. One arm locked around my throat, the other digging into my pockets. I dropped the package. I tried to elbow him off, twist away, scream, but all I got was a face full of gravel and a mouthful of panic. My ears rang. My breath came up short. Then, out of nowhere—
A growl.
Low. Deep. Like it had crawled up from the earth itself.
I twisted my head to see a gray and white pitbull, all ribs and muscle and fury, stalking toward us with a chain dragging behind him like he’d just broken out of hell. I braced for teeth, maybe even death—but he wasn’t coming for me.
The dog lunged.
My attacker froze, then shoved off me and scrambled back. The pitbull didn’t bite—just barked, growled, snapped, pushed the man into full-blown panic. He ran. Fast. Gone in seconds.
The dog turned to me, panting, drool hanging from his jowls. His tail twitched once, unsure. I sat there, covered in dust, blood trickling from my elbow, and I did what any sane person would do.
I cried. Then I hugged him.
There was no tag, no collar, no chip when I had him scanned the next day. No one came looking. So I gave him a name—Rooster, because of the way he strutted around like he owned the pavement—and took him home.
He’s been with me ever since.
Rooster rides shotgun on every route, head out the window, jowls flapping in the breeze. People smile when they see him now, wave at me like I’m some local character. “There goes the delivery guy with the pitbull,” they say.
I used to be afraid of pitbulls. Now I can’t imagine going anywhere without one.
But yesterday, something changed.
We were on Jefferson Lane, one of our usual stops. Cookie-cutter houses, old folks on porches, kids on scooters. I parked. Reached for the package. Looked at Rooster.
He wasn’t moving.
Just sat there, stiff, staring across the street. His eyes had gone flat and cold, ears stiff, tail still. I followed his gaze to a pale yellow house with peeling trim and overgrown shrubs. The blinds twitched.
“Come on, buddy,” I said, tapping the seat. He didn’t budge. I’d never seen him like that—not even the day he saved me.
I figured it was a squirrel. Maybe a raccoon. I got out of the truck, shook my head, and crossed the street.
The house felt off.
I rang the bell. No answer. I turned to leave—and that’s when I saw the door creak open behind me.
It wasn’t the homeowner. It was the man who attacked me.
Same eyes. Same jaw. A long scar ran down his temple now, like something had healed wrong. I froze. His face twisted in recognition, but not fear. Amusement.
“Small town,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d still be working this route.”
I backed up slowly. My van was behind me. Rooster still inside.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I called the cops after what you did.”
He laughed. “Yeah, and they never caught me, did they? You got lucky that day. But luck runs out.”
He stepped forward. I stepped back.
Then I heard it—the jingle of Rooster’s chain.
He’d gotten out.
I don’t know how—he must’ve clawed the lock, maybe pawed the door open. But suddenly, he was between us, body low, a growl rising from his chest that made even me take a step back.
The man froze.
Rooster didn’t lunge this time. He didn’t bark. He just stared, daring the man to try anything. It was silent except for the wind and the sound of my own heart crashing around in my ribs.
“You remember him, don’t you?” I said quietly. “He’s the reason you ran last time.”
The guy looked from me to the dog, then turned and slipped back into the house. The door clicked shut behind him.
I called the police. Again.
This time, I had more than a vague description. I had an address.
They arrested him the next day.
Turns out, he’d been hiding out in his mother’s house under a fake name, wanted in connection to a string of assaults in two counties. My report—the one I made after the first attack—was what finally tied him to the others. The detectives told me if Rooster hadn’t stalled him that day, they might still be looking.
The woman whose house it was came by later that week to thank me. Her name was Mrs. Aldridge, retired schoolteacher, soft voice, hard spine. Said she’d noticed something was off about her son lately but didn’t know how to help. She hugged me and brought Rooster a peanut butter bone the size of a dumbbell.
Rooster strutted around the neighborhood that day like a king.
I got home and gave him a bath, which he hated, then let him fall asleep on the couch, snoring like a chainsaw.
He’s not just my dog. He’s my shadow. My alarm system. My second chance.
I don’t know where he came from, or what made him break that chain and show up at just the right moment. But I do know this: he’s not a stray anymore.
And I don’t deliver alone.
Not ever again.
If you’ve ever thought a dog couldn’t change your life, let me tell you—mine didn’t just change it.
He saved it. Twice.
So what would you do if a stray pitbull chose you?
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