Johannesburg, 1999.
One early summer morning, in one of the most humble areas of the city, a gas explosion shook a row of houses. Fallen roofs, cracked bricks, smoke black … and a silence as thick as dust in the air.

The firefighters arrived quickly, but not quite enough. Most of the structures had collapsed. Among the rubble, an injured woman screamed:

— My daughter! My daughter is in!

The mother, with her face covered in soot, pointed to what was left of her house. The roof was missing. The walls were a ruin. And in the midst of chaos… no tears were heard.

Until a volunteer heard something.

He wasn’t a baby. It was a dog.

—What is that? —asked one of the firefighters, as they approached carefully—. A trapped animal ?

They broke a wall in half and saw him: a mixed dog, light-haired, curved, with a tight back like a shield. Underneath her body, wrapped in blankets and covered in ashes, there was a cradle… and inside, a baby just eight months old.

The dog growled at the beginning. I was defending. I was protecting. But as soon as he saw that they were human, he slowly pulled away, letting the mother’s arms reach out to her daughter.

The girl was alive.

She had spent more than two hours breathing between dust and smoke, protected by the body of the animal, which she had received on top of the collapse. I had bruised lower back, torn ribs…. but he hadn’t moved.

— Whose dog is this? —they asked.

—Our… —said the mother, with a trembling voice—. He is called Blackie. We found it abandoned three years ago. Since he arrived, he never leaves the girl.

Blackie was checked by vets and declared a national hero. They gave him a medal, photo in the newspaper, and even a food donation campaign with his face. But the only thing he seemed to care was to get back together with the girl.

—Are you still going to take care of him? — the neighbors asked the little girl, now older, years later.

—No. He takes care of me — he replied with a smile.

Blackie lived ten more years. In silence. Always around. Always be on the alert.

The day she died, the now-teen wrote in her diary:

“I don’t remember the explosion. But I do remember her smell. I remember her breathing on my face. And its heat wrapping around me like a house that won’t fall in. My first crib wasn’t wood. It was her body. ”

Today, at the entrance of a local school, there is a small bronze sculpture. Depicts a dog lying on a blanket. And a sentence etched in stone:

“Sometimes, the purest form of love… does not speak. Just protect. ”