“Again, that dog is sitting there,” grumbled the woman in the colorful scarf as she walked past the bus stop. “What is it waiting for? It’s long past time to realize that no one is coming for it.”
“I feel sorry for it,” her companion responded quietly. “It comes here every day, in any weather. Neither rain nor snow scares it.”
“She’s a fool, that’s what she is!” snapped the first woman. “A normal dog would have found a new home long ago.”
Layma didn’t even twitch an ear, though she heard the conversation perfectly. She had long been used to people discussing her presence here. Some felt sorry for her, some scolded her, and some tried to take her with them.
Layma remembered everything as if it were yesterday.
That rainy October evening when Ivan found her, a small trembling puppy, in a cardboard box near the trash bins. She was so tiny she fit in his large hands.
“Well, little one, will you come live with me?” he asked then, drying her off with an old towel. From then on, their lives were inseparable. Ivan worked as a long-distance bus driver and often took Layma with him on trips. She patiently waited for him at the final stops, joyously greeting him after each route. Passengers had grown accustomed to the ginger dog who daily saw off and welcomed their beloved driver.
She would not leave. Too many happy memories bound her to this place.
Here, at this very stop, they often played their favorite game—”find the owner.” Ivan would hide behind trees or a kiosk, and Layma, with joyful barking, would seek him out. Each find ended with boisterous fun and a tasty treat.
And once in the summer, they saved a little girl who nearly got hit by a car. Layma was the first to spot the danger and managed to grab the toddler by the dress, pulling her away from the road. Ivan was so proud of her then, praising her all the way home and even bought her a huge sugar bone.
Every morning started the same: a joint breakfast, a leisurely walk to the stop, a farewell hug. “Wait for me, girl,” Ivan would say. And she would wait. Because the owner might return at any moment.
Right now, a bus would pull up, the doors would open, and Ivan would step out. He’d smile his kind smile, ruffle her ear, and say, “Well, my girl, missed me?”
And she would jump on his chest, lick his face, and wag her tail so hard it seemed it might detach.
Another bus stopped at the stop. Layma perked up, peering into the faces of the disembarking passengers. No, not him again. And again, she would have to wait.
This repeated for over eight years—every day, in any weather. In the summer, when the asphalt melted from the heat, in the winter, when the frosts penetrated to the bone, in rain and snow.
“Laymochka, my dear,” an elderly woman placed a bowl of food in front of the dog. “Eat, darling. I brought you homemade chicken soup today.”
Anna Petrovna lived in the house across from the stop and often fed Layma. Over the years, like many locals, she had grown attached to the loyal dog.
Initially, Anna Petrovna, like others, tried to take Layma home. But the dog invariably returned to the stop. After several attempts, the woman gave up and simply began bringing food.
“And what happened to your owner?” she asked again, sitting next to Layma on the bench. “Where did he disappear to?”
Layma laid her head on her knees and whined softly. She remembered that day as if it were yesterday.
A typical morning. Ivan, as always, left the house early—he needed to catch the first bus. He worked as an intercity bus driver and often left for the whole day.
“Wait for me, girl,” he said then, scratching Layma behind the ear. “I’ll be back in the evening, we’ll go for a walk.”
Layma barked joyfully and sat at the stop, watching the departing bus. She always did this—saw off her owner and waited for his return right here.
But that evening Ivan did not return. He did not come back the next day. Or the week after. Or the month after.
And Layma kept waiting. Even when one of the neighbors mentioned that there had been a terrible accident far away, and Ivan’s bus had crashed.
Because the owner had promised to return. And he never lied.
Memories of other moments also surfaced. How they celebrated New Year’s together—Ivan always stayed home for the holiday because he knew how Layma was afraid of fireworks. They sat on the couch, watched TV, and when the explosions of firecrackers began, he held her tightly, whispering soothing words.
Their long summer walks in the park were remembered, where Ivan taught her various commands. Layma turned out to be a very capable student—catching on quickly. She especially enjoyed fetching the stick that the owner threw farther and farther.
And there was the incident with the neighbor boy, Petya, who was afraid of dogs. Ivan spent a whole month patiently acclimating the child to Layma, and eventually, they became best friends. Now Petya had grown up, gone to study, but every time he came to visit his parents, he always brought her a treat.
Layma endured not only weather hardships. There were also those who tried to drive her away from the stop.
“This is unsanitary!” exclaimed a full woman in an expensive coat one day, pointing at Layma. “Children walk here, and there’s a homeless dog! Where is the administration looking?!”
“How is she homeless?” intervened Anna Petrovna. “She has a home, it’s just…”
“Exactly, ‘it’s just’!” the woman interrupted. “You’ve turned this place into a shelter for stray animals. I’m going to complain!”
And she indeed began to complain. She wrote letters to the district administration, called the homeless animal control service, even called the television.
“Remove her from here!” she demanded. “Who knows, she might be rabid? What if she bites someone?” But the locals stood up for Layma. They told journalists her story, showed how kind and calm she was. Even the local doctor confirmed that he regularly checked the dog and gave her all the necessary vaccinations.
Then something happened that silenced even the fiercest opponents of Layma’s presence at the stop. One winter evening, that same woman in the expensive coat slipped on the icy sidewalk and fell, badly bruising her leg. She couldn’t get up, and there were no passersby nearby.
Only Layma, seeing a person in trouble, ran to her, started barking loudly, attracting people’s attention.
After this incident, the woman in the expensive coat never complained again. A week later, she even brought Layma a large bone.
“Forgive me, girl,” she said then. “I was wrong.”
Years passed. Layma gradually aged, her once luxurious ginger fur began to gray, and tiredness appeared in her eyes. But she continued to come to the stop every day.
“Lord, how long can this go on!” the shopkeeper from the nearby store exclaimed. “It’s been eight years. Can’t she understand that he’s not coming back?”
“It’s called loyalty,” Anna Petrovna quietly answered. “We could all learn from her.”
That day Layma felt especially ill. Her legs trembled, darkness clouded her eyes. But she still limped to the stop.
Anna Petrovna, seeing her condition, immediately called a veterinarian. But it was already too late.
More and more often, Layma saw in her dreams their happy days with Ivan. How they welcomed spring—the owner always took a day off for the first warmth, and they wandered through the waking city all day. How they went to his sister’s cottage on weekends, where Layma could run freely through the fields and swim in the river.
Even now, after so many years, she remembered the smell of his jacket, the warmth of his hands, the sound of his voice.
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, examining the dog. “Age takes its toll. She’s about ten years old, and that’s a lot for a homeless dog.”
“She’s not homeless!” Anna Petrovna hotly retorted. “She has a home. It’s just that the owner can’t return.”
Layma lay at the stop, her head on her paws. She looked down the road where her beloved owner had once departed. And perhaps she even imagined she saw the familiar bus in the distance.
They say dogs can’t cry. But at that moment, tears shone in Layma’s eyes. Or perhaps it was just the light of the setting sun reflecting in them.
She closed her eyes and finally fell asleep. Now forever.
At that moment, Anna Petrovna thought she saw a smile on Layma’s face. As if she had finally met the one she had waited for so long.
News of the loyal dog’s death quickly spread through the town. People brought flowers to the stop, shared stories on social media about how Layma had been a part of their lives all these years.
The local newspaper published a large article about the unusual dog.
A month later, a small monument appeared at the bus stop: a bronze dog, sitting in wait. The plaque read: “To Layma, whose loyalty knew no bounds.”
And now, everyone who passes by this stop can see a story of love and devotion, frozen in bronze. The story of a dog who waited for her owner until her last breath.
People simply stop and stroke the polished bronze muzzle, already polished by thousands of touches.
But the most amazing thing happens in the mornings. If you come here early in the morning, when the city is still asleep, you can see how the first rays of the sun fall on the metal figure, and it seems as if the same spark of hope that burned in Layma’s eyes all these years lights up in the bronze dog’s eyes.
Because true love never dies.