Sherman begins pacing at approximately 8:15 every night. He is moving slowly and patiently back and forth across the living room as if he is waiting for someone to tell him it’s time, but he is not agitated or anything.
Our English Mastiff is him. 180 pounds of affection and drool. To be honest, he is not so much a dog as a weary old grandfather. Large sighs. Move slowly. eyes that are deep and thoughtful.
However, his weak point? Our daughters.
Sherman developed a nighttime routine on his own for our two children, who are six and nine years old. He goes to the corridor and waits as soon as they begin brushing their teeth. Like a sentry, it simply sits there. After they’re finished, he follows each of them individually into their room.
He lightly licks their hands. His enormous head is nuzzled against their beds. At times, he even grunts joyfully, as if he’s officially finished for the evening.
And after the two females have cuddled good night? He lumbers—well, trots—back to the living room, collapses onto his blanket, and sighs as deeply as anyone has ever sighed.
The problem is that something didn’t feel quite right last night.
He rose like he always did. stood in the corridor, waiting. He hesitated, though, as the girls called him in. simply stood and gazed. Then, instead, he turned and headed for the front door.
He began to complain. Quiet and low, yet steady.
Dante, my husband, and I exchanged bewildered glances.
“Perhaps he heard something out there?” I muttered.
Sherman, however, never does that.
I slightly pried the door open.
And my heart skipped a beat as I saw what was on the porch.
A little cat was tucked in the corner. Perhaps six or seven months. It had these large, scared green eyes, a fluffy tail, and gray-and-white fur. The drizzle that had begun an hour earlier had left the poor thing drenched. The tiny cat gave me the most pathetic mew I’ve ever heard as it gazed up at me and locked eyes.
Sherman, directly behind me, rumbled quietly with worry. It was more of a “Hey, we need to do something about this” than a growl.
I carefully scooped the cat up and widened the door. Its small heart was thumping so violently that I could feel it. We wrapped her up after Dante got an old towel out of the closet. Sherman immediately gave her a soft sniff while swishing his tail. He didn’t appear angry or envious. He simply exuded worry.
Lila, age 9, and Mia, age 6, were still waiting in their bedroom, perplexed as to why Sherman had abruptly disappeared during what should have been their bedtime ritual. As I went to reassure the girls, I gestured for Dante to take the cat into the kitchen.
“Is everything alright, Mom?” As I entered, Lila inquired.
“Sherman appeared frightened,” Mia continued.
I quickly embraced them both. “He’s all right. Outside, he just discovered something. Not a huge deal. After we settle you both in, I’ll go over everything.
Sherman always follows me into their room so he can give me his good-night cuddles. But his priorities were different that night. In the kitchen with Dante, I could hear him pacing once more, seemingly on alert. The half-sleepy, half-excited girls made a fussless transition to their beds, but they were intrigued.
“Is that an animal?” With eager eyes, Lila inquired.
“Isn’t that a cat?” Mia propped herself up on one elbow and guessed.
I let out a sigh. I was never able to hide anything from them for very long. It is indeed a small feline. She was discovered on the porch by Sherman. She’s afraid, but she’s well. In the morning, we’ll decide what to do.
That was enough to satisfy the girls, so I gave them good night kisses and snuck away. They disrupted our customary bedtime routine, but strangely, I believe they understood Sherman had a mission to assist.
I went back to the kitchen and saw Sherman stroking the cat and Dante setting a shallow bowl of water next to it. Even though she had stopped shaking so much, the cat’s little tongue lapped at it avidly while she was still enveloped in the towel. She stared up at me as I knelt down to pet her, appearing more relieved than alarmed.
“Do you think she’s lost?” Dante asked in a quiet voice.
“She might be,” I remarked. However, she is not wearing a collar. She might be a stray or a member of one of the new neighbors.
As though he approved of our intention to assist her, Sherman sat back and huffed softly. The cat nuzzled my hand and I found myself mentally referring to it as “Pepper.” After a few minutes of discussion, Dante and I decided to put her up for the night in the laundry room with a small litter box we made out of a plastic bucket and a comfortable old blanket.
But Sherman would not leave her alone. He would always follow us as we left the room. merely to sulk while standing at the threshold and looking back at Pepper. I had initially been drawn to the front door by the same faint whining. At last, we allowed him to lie in the corridor outside the washing room, with the door slightly open to allow him to view her. He didn’t settle down until he was certain she was comfortable and secure.
By that time, it was almost 10:00 p.m., which meant that it was time for us to go to bed. Sherman, however, was agitated. He stood up once again, walked down to the girls’ room, and stuck his huge head inside. I suppose he didn’t want to completely abandon his evening routine. He walked up to Lila’s bed, sniffed her cheek, and gave Mia’s hand the smallest lick. The girls giggled quietly, almost sleeping.
After finishing his last nightly task, Sherman stumbled back to the corridor by the washing room, made three full circles, and collapsed on the ground. He was out like a light after that.
When the sun rose the following morning, Pepper was agitated and pawing at the entrance. When I peered in, Sherman was sitting up straight, his large, wrinkled face appearing worried as usual, and his ears perked up. A few minutes later, still wiping sleep from their eyes, Mia and Lila came out, thrilled to see the cat. Lila gently took up Pepper and held her against her shoulder as Mia gave a little shout of happiness and ran forward to pet her.
That afternoon, we asked around the neighborhood, but no one seemed to know Pepper. Although she couldn’t be certain if it was the same cat, one neighbor reported seeing a stray gray-and-white kitten several times at the park a few streets away. Pepper, meanwhile, pretended to have lived with us her entire life. She followed Sherman about, which was funny because of the size difference—think of a little kitten trotting after a huge mastiff. For his part, Sherman appeared more defensive than before. He seemed to have concluded that Pepper was a member of the family.
We searched for any “lost cat” posters for a week. To find out if anyone was missing a furry friend, we looked through the local social media boards. There was nothing. The girls were obviously overjoyed, and Dante was unexpectedly amenable to letting her stay, despite the fact that he had never thought of getting a cat. One night, he made a joke about how “Sherman obviously wants her here.” “Who am I to argue with a guard dog that weighs 180 pounds and has developed feelings for a cat?”
Pepper slept on a small pillow bed we had made up in the girls’ room each night during that week. Additionally, Sherman would begin his pacing regimen at approximately 8:15 every night. After waiting for the kids to clean their teeth and giving them both his customary little cuddle, he would turn to Pepper and ask, “Is everything okay in here?” Then he would return to the living room and his blanket.
A few weeks later, however, the true surprise was revealed. I was cleaning the porch on a Saturday afternoon when I heard a shout of excitement coming from the sidewalk: “Pepper! Pepper!” A young woman who appeared completely relieved, most likely in her early twenties, hurried up. She clarified that a few weeks ago, her kitten ran out of her apartment through the front door and never came back. She was beginning to lose hope after searching the neighborhood and posting images on local boards (apparently we hadn’t seen her specific messages). She was shocked to see Pepper’s characteristic gray-and-white markings lying on our windowsill.
I felt a little sad. Pepper began to feel like a member of our family by that point. Mia drew images of her in all of her school notebooks since she was particularly connected. She had been learning how to retrieve small, crumpled paper balls from Lila. Naturally, Sherman had evolved into Pepper’s enormous guardian. However, we were aware that keeping someone else’s cherished pet was wrong.
When I invited the woman inside, Pepper immediately went to greet her. She repeatedly thanked me while holding Pepper close and crying. Although it was a joyful reunion, I could see Lila’s face light up with inquiries. She was mature enough to comprehend.
Then Sherman took an unexpected action. He approached the woman directly, gave Pepper a final sniff, and wagged his tail a little. With a single, gentle huff, he seemed to be saying good-bye. That may be my imagination, but it was such a sweet moment. For a whole minute, Pepper and Sherman remained motionless and silent as she nuzzled her small head beneath Sherman’s enormous chin.
We assisted Pepper in gathering her belongings, which included a feeding dish, a small cushion bed we had built, and some cat treats the girls had been smuggling to her. The woman expressed her gratitude to us over and over again. With tears in their eyes and smiles on their faces as they witnessed how delighted Pepper was to be returning home, Lila and Mia gave Pepper a final hug.
I thought Sherman might be gloomy or agitated that night. However, at precisely 8:15, he sprang up and paced as usual. He accompanied the girls into their room after they had finished brushing their teeth, gave them each his traditional “Sherman tuck-in,” and then collapsed in the living room. He sighed deeply, probably satisfied that he had done his duty. He seemed to know that everything was going according to plan, even though Pepper was no longer there.
A few days later, Pepper’s owner sent us a thank-you message and a picture of her cuddled up by a window in the sun. When Sherman sniffs at it, he lets out one of those joyful groans that indicate, “She’s okay,” and the girls attached it to their bedroom mirror.
All of this has taught me something. Paying attention to the little cues our loved ones—and our pets—give us is sometimes the greatest way we can help. “Hey, someone out there needs us,” Sherman said softly as he whined at the door that evening. Additionally, we were able to reconnect a lost cat with her owner by listening. We also gave our daughters a modest but important lesson: choosing compassion can have a significant impact when you see someone in need, even if it’s simply a stray cat on a rainy porch.
Sherman keeps up his nightly ritual, not sleeping until he is positive both girls are safely tucked in. Knowing that this large, slobbery dog has our backs, even while we’re going to bed, is reassuring in a way that I can’t quite explain. And Sherman will definitely alert us if another stray appears on our porch.
Kindness has the power to elevate even the most regular days into extraordinary ones. I want to leave you with this thought: genuine love is demonstrated in the little things, in the silent times and the subliminal cues that something (or someone) requires your attention.
If you were moved by this story, I hope you will tell it to a friend or loved one who could use a little more assurance that people—and dogs—are good. To let us know you like these heartwarming tales, please like this post if you enjoyed following Sherman’s adventures. There should always be more kind giants like Sherman in the world, as well as more neighbors watching out for the lost.