At Firestation Four, before the sky turned pink and before the crew pulled on their boots, one dog was already at work. Rolf was a Rottweiler — broad as a barrel, black as a boot, with a jaw that could grip the brass fittings on the fire hose when every human hand fumbled and dropped them. Every morning, same job: fetch the hose from the shed, carry it to the truck. Sniff, sniff, sniff.
The shed was cool and dark and smelled of rubber and metal. Rolf padded in, found the coiled hose on its hook, and clamped his teeth around the brass fitting. He gave it one solid pull — and stopped. Something inside the coil was breathing. Rolf lowered his nose into the hollow centre of the hose. Curled up in there, small as a bread roll, was a golden retriever puppy. Fast asleep. Paws tucked under its chin, ears flopped sideways, chest going up — down — up — down.
Rolf could not yank the hose. He could not leave the hose. He stood very still for four whole seconds, which is a long time for a Rottweiler. Then he picked up the entire coil — brass fitting, rubber hose, sleeping puppy and all — and walked. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Halfway across the yard, his nose caught something sharp and interesting near the crew's boot rack. One boot had a frog in it. The frog blinked. Rolf blinked back. The hose-coil swung from his jaws. The puppy did not wake up.
There was a spilled mug of tea by the picnic bench, stone cold now, and a biscuit crumb beside it. Rolf noted both. He noted also the precise spot on the path where a cat had walked at midnight — he could tell by the way the dew was pressed down in four small paw-prints. Sniff, sniff, sniff. The puppy made a tiny squeaking noise, like a hinge that needed oiling. Rolf stopped. He waited. The puppy's paw twitched once and went still. He kept walking.
The truck bay doors were open. Morning light came in sideways and gold, and it lit up the dust on the engine's bumper and the coiled hose swinging from Rolf's mouth and the small, round shape sleeping inside it. He set the coil down on the bay floor. He sat up straight, which is how Rottweilers show they have done their job correctly. Boots came thumping. The crew arrived — jackets half-on, hair still flat from sleep — and stopped in a row, staring at the hose. One of them crouched and unrolled it across the floor, and out tumbled the puppy, end over end, into a patch of sunlight. It sat up. It blinked. Its tail started going before its eyes were even open.
The crew laughed the kind of laugh that bounces off concrete walls. Someone found the biscuit tin in under thirty seconds. Someone else disappeared and came back in under ten minutes with a little wicker basket lined with an old station towel, because Rolf had been looking at them very expectantly. Rolf received two biscuits. He ate them with great dignity. Later, the station was quiet. Rolf turned three circles on his mat — once, twice, three times — and dropped down with a heavy whumph that rattled the water bowl. He tucked his big square nose under his paw. Across the room, from the little wicker basket, came the slow, soft sound of a puppy breathing in and out, in and out, in and out.
