“Anton, be careful, don’t crush Baikal,” Stas’s voice sounded sharper than he had intended.
The three-year-old boy didn’t react. He merely pressed himself tighter against the enormous German Shepherd, burying his face in its thick fur. His gray pajama bottoms with yellow cars were bunched at the knees, and his tiny hands clutched the dog’s neck in a death grip.
Baikal didn’t move. Only the tip of his tail rhythmically thumped the sofa—calmly, confidently, as if right here, in a child’s arms, he felt most at home.
“Same thing again,” Stas exhaled tiredly, rubbing his temples.
Ira emerged from the kitchen, her hair pulled back into a messy bun, and dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep.
“Screaming won’t help,” she said quietly. “You’ll only scare them.”
“He should be sleeping in a bed, Ira. Not stuck to the dog,” Stas said irritably.
“Maybe the bed is empty for him without Baikal,” she replied. “And without me, too.”
Stas glanced briefly at his wife, but remained silent.
The living room resembled a battlefield—toys under the table, dishes uncollected, bills and letters on the arm of the sofa. Ira picked up one envelope, frowned, and put it back.
“Antosha, let’s go to bed,” Stas tried to say softly.
“No,” the boy muttered into the dog’s fur. “I’m from Baikal.”
Ira sat down next to him and carefully touched her son’s shoulder.
“Darling, dad’s right. Let Baikal lie next to you, and you sleep in your crib.”
“No! Mom told me—with Baikal too!” Anton shouted, clinging tighter.
Baikal didn’t move. He simply closed his eyes, as if in agreement.
“You’ve spoiled him,” Stas said sharply. “He needs to get used to us, not the dog.”
“Don’t you dare say that,” Ira flared up. “If it weren’t for Baikal, he wouldn’t sleep at all! Do you think I don’t see how he clings to it like it’s the last thing left of his mother?”
The air thickened. Stas looked away and muttered:
– You are not a mother, Baikal.
The dog sighed quietly and licked the child’s forehead.
Thus the days and nights passed – with quarrels, fatigue and the invariable “I sleep with Baikal.”
“Five minutes and then go to bed, okay?” Ira wearily coaxed.
“Mom said, take care of Lake Baikal,” he replied.
These words struck like a knife. Ira turned pale, Stas lowered his head.
“So be it,” he muttered, slamming the bedroom door.
Later, lying in the darkness, he said almost in a whisper:
– He chooses the dog, Ira. And not me.
“Maybe because the dog never yells at him,” she answered quietly.
Stas didn’t know what to say.
Two weeks later, a downpour descended on the city. The wind howled in the chimneys, and the rain pounded the glass. That night, Stas awoke to a strange silence. Not a rustle, not a breath, not the clatter of claws.
He jumped up and ran into the living room.
Anton and Baikal lay together—as always. The boy hugged the dog, pressing his face against her neck. But their chests didn’t move.
– Anton?.. – the voice trembled.
Silence.
“Ira!” the cry echoed throughout the house.
The wife ran in, her face turning white.
– No… God, no!
Stas shook the boy, then the dog. To no avail.
“Call an ambulance!” he snapped. “He’s not breathing! And the dog isn’t either!”
Sirens filled the street. Paramedics rushed into the house.
— The child is unconscious! Poisoning, probably! The dog… was hurt too!
Anton clutched Baikal convulsively, not letting go even when he was unconscious. He had to force his hands apart.
“The mask! Hurry!” the doctors shouted.
— There’s a pulse! Weak, but there’s one! We’re bringing him!
“And the dog?!” Stas shouted.
The paramedic just shook his head.
At the hospital everything became clear.
“The boy has severe carbon monoxide poisoning,” the doctor explained. “You have a gas heater by the sofa, right?”
Stas nodded, turning pale.
“There was a leak. They inhaled it. Apparently, the dog lay down closer to the source and absorbed the impact. Essentially, it shielded the child.”
The words hit me like a hammer.
Baikal died saving his son.
Later the doctor came out and said quietly:
— We did everything we could.
Ira covered her face with her hands. Stas approached Baikal’s body, closed his eyes, and whispered:
“He loved you more than I could. And now my son is alive thanks to him.”
At dawn Anton opened his eyes.
“Where is Baikal?” he croaked.
Ira sat down next to me.
“He saved you, darling. He was the bravest.”
— Bring him… please.
Stas hugged his son, barely holding back tears.
“He’s in heaven now, Anton. But he’ll always be close.”
The three of them cried for the one who gave his life without a second’s hesitation.
Years passed. Anton grew up, but every one of his drawings featured a dog.
Sometimes, during a thunderstorm, he would still look into the corner where the sofa once stood and quietly say:
— Baikal wouldn’t be afraid.
Stas kept the old collar in the garage. Sometimes he’d take it out at night and whisper:
– Thank you, friend.
A new dog never came to the house. Not because they didn’t want one, but because they knew Baikal couldn’t be replaced.
He wasn’t just an animal. He was love, loyalty, and proof that a dog’s heart is sometimes purer than a human’s.
And when someone asked Anton why he didn’t have a pet, the boy invariably replied: “I had the best one. He gave me his life. I don’t need another.”
