“Come on then, Rusty…” muttered Val as he straightened the homemade lead of old rope. He zipped up his jacket to his chin and shivered—it was a particularly nasty February, sleet hammering down and the wind cutting right through him. Rusty—a faded ginger mongrel with one milky, blind eye—had come into Val’s life a year ago. He’d been finishing a night shift at the factory and seen the battered, starving dog by the bins with a clouded left eye. The shout set Val’s nerves on edge. He recognised the voice—Sean “Scarface”, the local twenty-five-year-old “hard man”. Three spotty teenagers hung around with him—his “crew”. “We’re taking a stroll,” Val answered shortly, gaze fixed on the icy ground. “Oi, mate, you pay your dog-walking tax for that freak?” one of the lads jeered, cackling. “Look at him—proper ugly, his eye’s all mashed up!” A stone flew, hitting Rusty in the ribs. The dog whimpered and pressed close to Val’s leg. “Get lost,” Val said quietly, steel in his tone. “Oh! Gramps found his voice!” Sean sauntered closer. “Don’t forget whose patch this is. Dogs walk here with my say-so.” Val tensed. The army had taught him to deal with problems swiftly and decisively—but that was thirty years ago. Now he was just a weary retired mechanic who didn’t want trouble. “Let’s go, Rusty,” he muttered, turning for home. “Yeah, run along! Next time your mutt’s a goner!” Sean yelled after him. All night, Val replayed the scene in his mind. The next day, wet snow fell. Val delayed the walk, but Rusty waited by the door, so devoted that Val gave in at last. “All right, all right—make it quick,” he grumbled. They stuck to quieter paths—but there was no sign of Sean’s lot, likely hiding from the foul weather. Val relaxed, until Rusty suddenly stopped by the deserted boiler house. The old dog pricked his one ear, sniffing the air. “What’s up, old boy?” Rusty whimpered, pulling towards the derelict building. Strange sounds drifted out—sobs, or moans, hard to tell in the howling wind. “Hello? Anyone there?” Val called. No reply—just the wind. Rusty strained forward, anxiety shining in his lone good eye. “What is it? What is it, boy?” Then Val heard it, clear as anything—a child’s voice: “Help me!” Heart pounding, Val unclipped the lead and followed Rusty in. In the wrecked boiler room, behind a mound of bricks, lay a boy of about twelve—bloody-faced, split-lipped, clothes torn. “Oh God!” Val dropped beside him. “What happened?” “Mr Valentine?” The boy squinted up. Val recognised him—Andy Mason, the shy lad from next door. “Andy! What is it?” “Sean and his gang… wanted money off Mum. I said I’d tell. They caught me…” “How long have you been here?” “Since this morning. It’s so cold.” Val stripped off his jacket and wrapped the boy up. Rusty curled close, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand up, Andy?” “My leg hurts—think it’s broken.” Val gently checked—yes, broken, and who knows what else. “Got a phone?” “They took it.” Val dug out his ancient Nokia and dialed 999. Paramedics would be there in thirty minutes. “Hang on, son—the ambulance is coming.” “What if Sean finds out I survived?” Andy whispered, panic rising. “He said he’d finish me…” “He won’t,” Val said firmly. “He’ll never touch you again.” The boy stared, surprised. “But you walked away yesterday.” “That was different—just me and Rusty. Now…” He trailed off. What was there to explain? How thirty years ago he’d sworn an oath to protect the weak? How Afghanistan taught him: a real man never abandons a hurt child? The ambulance came fast; Andy was whisked to hospital. Val, left at the ruins with Rusty, pondered. That evening Andy’s mum, Mrs Mason, came round in tears, thanking Val over and over. “The doctors said one more hour alone, he might have died! You saved his life, Mr Valentine!” “Not me—Rusty found him,” Val replied, stroking the dog’s head. “But what’ll happen now?” Mrs Mason looked fearfully at the door. “Sean won’t stop. The police say they have no proof without witnesses.” “It’ll be all right,” Val promised, though he had no idea how. He didn’t sleep; worry gnawed at him. How could he protect Andy? Or every other child bullied by that gang? By morning, he knew. He put on his old army uniform—parade dress, medals and all. Checked the mirror—not young, but still a soldier. “Come on, Rusty. We’ve got work to do.” Sean’s crew lounged by the shop as usual, mocking as Val approached. “Oi! Looks like Remembrance Day came early—look at Granda, what a hero!” Sean got up, sneering. “Clear off, pensioner. Your time’s over.” “My time’s just started,” Val said quietly, closing the gap. “What’s with the get-up?” “To serve my country. And protect kids from people like you.” Sean laughed. “What kids? What country, old man?” “Andy Mason—remember him?” Sean’s sneer faded. “Why should I remember losers?” “Because he’s the last child you’ll ever hurt here.” “Threatening me, granddad?” “A warning.” Sean stepped in, a flick-knife glinting in his hand. “I’ll show you who runs this place.” Val didn’t move an inch. The army never really leaves you. “The law runs things here.” “What law? Who made you sheriff?” “My conscience did.” That’s when Rusty, who’d been still as a statue, suddenly bristled. A low, menacing growl rumbled from his throat. “And your mutt—” “My dog’s a veteran,” Val cut in. “Afghanistan. Bomb detection. He can sniff out scum with one look.” It was a lie—Rusty was just a mongrel—but Val delivered it so convincingly, everyone believed it. Even Rusty straightened up, baring his teeth. “He found twenty militants in Afghanistan. Brought every one in alive. Think he can handle one junkie?” Sean backed off; his mates froze behind him. “Listen up,” Val stated, stepping forward. “From now on, every yard, every night—I walk these streets. Me and my dog. Any trouble, we’ll find it. And then…” He left it hanging. “You trying to scare me, old man? I could—” “Go on then, call for help. But I’ve got connections—real ones. Prison’s full of mates who owe me favours.” Another lie, but Val’s steel convinced them. “Name’s Valentine—Val Afghan, they call me. Don’t touch the kids again.” Val turned and walked away. Rusty trotted at his side, tail held like a flag. Silence followed them down the street. Three days passed. Sean and his crew were nowhere to be seen. Val truly did patrol the streets daily. Rusty kept close—proud and serious. Andy was discharged a week later, limping but on the mend. He visited that day. “Mr Valentine—can I help with your rounds?” he asked. “I could be your deputy.” “Talk to your mum first, Andy. But I’d be honoured.” Mrs Mason agreed. She was only glad her son had someone to look up to. So every evening, neighbours spotted a curious team—a grandad in uniform, a boy, and a scruffy old ginger dog. Rusty became beloved, even by mums who’d normally shoo away strays. There was something special—noble—about him. Val told the kids tales of the army, of loyalty, of courage. They listened wide-eyed. One night, as they walked home, Andy asked: “Were you ever scared, Mr Valentine?” “I was,” Val admitted. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of not being quick enough. Not being strong enough.” Andy stroked Rusty. “When I’m grown-up, I’ll help you. I’ll have a dog just like Rusty.” “You will,” Val smiled. “Absolutely.” Rusty’s tail wagged. Everyone in the area knew him now. “That’s Valentine’s dog. He can spot a hero from a scoundrel,” they said. And Rusty wore the role with pride—no longer just a mongrel, but a defender.

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 1

Well, Rusty, shall we go then? I muttered, tugging at the makeshift lead Id crafted from an old bit of rope. I did up my coat right to the throat and shuddered. February had turned nasty this yearwet sleet, biting wind cutting clear through me.

Rustya scruffy mongrel with worn, ginger-tinged fur and one clouded, blind eyehad stumbled into my life about a year ago. Id been trudging home from the night shift at the foundry and caught sight of him rummaging near the bins. The poor thing was battered, half starved, and his left eye filmed over with a milky glaze.

A voice cut through the air, jagged as glass. I recognised it at onceSteve Cross, local hard man at about twenty-five. His hangers-onthree teenage ladshovered nearby.

Out for a wander, are we? drawled Steve.

We are, I replied curtly, eyes down.

Oi, mate, you pay council tax on that mutt? cackled one of the boys. Look how grim he iseyes all manky!

A stone sailed through the air, smacking Rusty in the ribs. He yelped and pressed to my leg.

Leave it, I said quietly, though there was something steely in my tone.

Oooh, listen to him! Steve closed in. Dont forget whose patch this is, old man. Dogs round here walk by my say-so.

I tensed. Theyd tried to drill quick, ruthless solutions into us in my Army days. That was thirty years back. Now I was just a knackered, retired mechanic who wanted nothing to do with trouble.

Come on, Rusty, I said, heading home.

Thats what I thought! Steve called behind me. Next time, that ugly curs done for!

At home, I hardly slept, replaying it all in my head.

The next day, heavy, wet snow came down. I put off the walk as long as I could, but Rusty sat by the door, gazing at me with such unwavering loyalty that I surrendered.

All right, all right. But we wont hang about.

We kept clear of the usual haunts, wary of Steve and his lot, but there was no sign of themlikely keeping dry. Relief softened me, just as Rusty came to a sudden halt by the old, derelict boiler house. His one working ear perked, nose twitching.

Whats on, eh, old chap?

He whined, tugging towards the ruins. From inside, I heard itstrange noisesalmost like a child crying out.

Hello? Anyone there? I called.

No answer. Only the whistling wind.

Rusty kept pulling, worry clear in his one good eye.

Whats up, mate? I bent down. What do you hear?

And then I picked it out, plain as anythinga thin childs voice:

Help me!

Heart pounding, I unclipped the lead and followed Rusty to the wrecked doorway.

Behind a pile of bricks, sprawled a boy, maybe twelve. Face cut, lip split, clothes torn.

Dear God! I knelt. Whats happened?

Mr. Barker? he croaked, trying to focus on me. Is it really you?

Looking closer, I recognised himAndy Mitchell, my neighbour from number fifty-two. Quiet, shy kind of lad.

Andy! Who did this?

Steves gang, he whimpered. They wanted money from Mum. I said Id tell the police they caught me

How longve you been here?

Since this morning. It’s so cold

I shrugged off my coat, wrapped it around him. Rusty snuggled close, giving his warmth.

Can you stand, Andy?

My leg hurts. I think its broken.

Careful, I checked. Definitely broken, and no telling what elsethat sort of lesson can do more than break bones.

Youve got a phone?

They took it.

I fished out my battered Nokia and dialled 999. Ambulance said theyd be along in half an hour.

Hang in there, son. Helps coming.

Andys voice shook. What if Steve finds out Im alive? He said hed finish me for good.

He wont, I said firm. Hell never lay a finger on you again.

He stared, wide-eyed. But you ran off yesterday

That was different. That was just me and Rusty. Now

I didnt finish. What would I saythat thirty years ago I made an oath to protect the weak? That in the Army theyd taught me a man doesnt abandon a child in need?

The ambulance made good time. They took Andy away. Left me by the crumbling boiler house with Rusty and a head spinning with worry.

That evening, Mrs. Mitchell knockedeyes red, clasping my hands tight.

Mr. Barker, she sobbed, the doctors saidanother hour in that cold and hed have you saved his life!

I didnt save him, I said, stroking Rusty. It was this old hound who found your boy.

What happens now? She glanced nervously at the door. Steve wont let it lie. The police say theres no proof, they wont do anything with just a childs word.

Itll be fine, I promised. I wished I believed it.

Sleep wouldnt come, my mind churninghow to keep Andy safe? And the othershow many kids round here had Steve and his gang terrorised?

By dawn, I had my answer.

I put on my old army parade uniformthe lot, medals and all. Stared in the mirrorstill a soldier, even if times marched on.

Come on, Rusty. Theres something weve got to do.

Steve and his lot loitered as always by the off-licence. Spotted me and set up a jeer.

Oi, look at grandad! Going to the Remembrance parade, are we? one sneered.

Steve sauntered over, smug. Move along, grandad. Your times past.

My times just beginning, I replied, voice steady as I walked up.

What you doing here in that getup?

Serving my country. Protecting the vulnerablefrom scum like you.

Steve laughed. What planet you on, mate? Vulnerable? This isnt the Army.

Andy Mitchellyou recall him?

The sneer faded.

Why should I remember some loser?

Because hell be the last kid you hurt in this neighbourhood.

You threatening me, old man?

Im warning you.

He took a step, a glint of metal in his hand.

Ill show you whos boss round here.

I didnt budge an inch. Army drilled that into me, and it stuck.

The law is boss.

What law? Who put you in charge?

My conscience.

It was then that Rusty, whod been quietly beside me, rose uphackles raised, deep growl rumbling.

Your mutt Steve began.

My dogs a veteran, I cut him off. Afghan bomb squad. He can sniff out cowards from a mile off.

A fib, of courseRusty was just an ordinary stray. But I said it with conviction. Even Rusty seemed to believe it, baring his teeth.

Hes caught twenty terroristsbrought each one in alive. Think he cant handle a two-bit thug?

Steve shifted, a flicker of fear. His crew held still.

Listen up, I said, taking a step forward. This estates safe from now on. Ill be out patrolling, every day. And my Rusty here, hell be sniffing bullies out. And then

Stopped short. No need to spell it out.

You trying to scare me? Steve scoffed. I make one call

Go on then, I nodded. But rememberIve got connections you wouldnt believe. I know half the blokes inside. Im owed plenty of favours.

Another lie, but it worked. Steves face paled.

Names Arthur BarkerAfghan vet. Remember it. And keep your hands off the kids.

I turned away, Rusty pacing proud at my side.

Silence hung behind us.

Three days on, Steves lot were nowhere to be seen.

And true to my word, I started walking the estate daily. Rusty beside me, solemn as a judge.

Andy was discharged after a week, still limping but back on his feet. Came round to see me the very day he got home.

Mr. Barker, he blurted, can I help youfor the rounds, I mean?

You canbut clear it with your mum first.

She didnt objecttruth told, she was glad her boy had a proper example to follow.

And so, most evenings, there we werean old soldier in full regalia, a keen lad, and a battered ginger dog.

Rusty was a favourite. Even the mums let the kids stroke him, though he was no purebred. He just had somethinga quiet dignity.

Id tell the children storiesarmy days, real friendship. Theyd listen, faces shining.

One evening, as Andy and I turned for home, he asked:

Were you ever scared, Mr. Barker?

I was, I answered honestly. Still am sometimes.

Of what?

Of being too late. Of not being strong enough.

Andy stroked Rusty.

When Im older Ill help, too. Ill have a clever dog, just like Rusty.

You will, I smiled. No doubt you will.

Rusty just wagged his tail.

Now everyone round here knows him. They say, Thats Barkers Rusty. He can spot a hero from a scoundrel.

And Rusty takes his duty seriously, chest puffed out. No longer just a stray. Now, hes a guardian.

Natalie, You’ve Been Gone Five Years—You Never Cared How I Was or What Became of Me Natalie and Ben had lived together for over five years. Ben wasn’t rolling in money—he was just an ordinary labourer earning a modest wage. Natalie always dreamed of a comfortable, or better yet, luxurious life, so whenever she met someone wealthier than her husband, she was secretly thrilled. Then one day, Natalie’s luck seemed to change—she was noticed by a wealthy businessman who promised her the world. Taken in by his smooth talk, she left her struggling husband to start a new, glamorous life. Ben was shattered by his wife’s decision. He begged her to stay, promising to work harder, switch jobs, make more money—anything to keep her happy. But Natalie remained firm. She was enchanted with visions of sailing on white yachts and shopping in Europe’s finest boutiques—things her poor husband could never provide. No vow of love or grand promise could sway her. Five years later, at thirty-two, Natalie’s rich benefactor lost interest in her—he was now surrounded by younger, more enticing women. He told her she was too argumentative and demanding, and cast her aside. With nowhere to go in London, no work experience, and no means to support herself, Natalie decided to crawl back to her ex-husband. Convinced that his vow of everlasting love meant he would be waiting for her, she set out for their former home. As she approached the door, she heard a rustle inside. The door opened, and a stranger holding a small girl appeared. “Darling, I’ve told you before not to open the door on your own,” the woman said to the girl in her arms. Then she turned to Natalie, “Can I help you?” Natalie stood frozen on the doorstep. “I’m looking for Ben. Is he home?” she stammered, lost for words. “Ben, there’s someone here for you! What’s your name?” called the stranger, then glanced back at their visitor. “Natalie!” Ben exclaimed in surprise when he appeared. Turning to the woman, he said, “Sweetheart, go back inside. I need to talk for a minute.” “Who was that woman?” Natalie asked, staring after the young woman with her daughter. “That’s my wife, Olivia, and in her arms is our daughter, Maddy,” Ben replied. “When did you get married? You have a daughter? Ben, you swore eternal love to me—you promised you’d never love anyone as much as you loved me!” “So many years have passed since that day! At first, I was heartbroken, but then I realised life goes on after you. Then I met Olivia—and I fell in love. She made me happy. She gave me a daughter.” “And what about me?” “Natalie, you’ve been gone for five years, and you never once cared how I was or what became of me. You left for someone else’s money, thinking only of comfort and a wealthy life. Maybe we were never rich, but what you did can’t be justified. Now you come back? What did you expect—that I’d be here waiting for you all this time?” “I was foolish! I love you!” “Natalie, enough of this charade. Please just go—I don’t need you and I don’t want to see you. Your fancy man threw you out so now you come crawling back? Honestly, it’s disgusting. Just go.” Natalie broke down in bitter tears, devastated that no one wanted her, while Ben was finally glad he’d managed to forget her and, in his own way, get his revenge.

“Well, Ginger, shall we head out then…” muttered Val, adjusting the makeshift lead fashioned from an old piece of rope. He zipped his ancient coat up to his chin and shivered. February that year was vicious—slush, stinging wind, cold that cut right through you. Ginger—a scruffy ginger mongrel with mottled fur and one cloudy eye—had walked into Val’s life a year ago. Val had spotted the battered and starving stray by the bins on his way back from the night shift at the steelworks. The poor animal’s left eye was milky with an old injury. A shout sliced through the evening. Val recognised the sneer—it was Steve ‘Squint’, the local twenty-something would-be tough guy. Around him loitered three teenage lads—his ‘crew.’ “Out for a walk, are we, gramps?” Steve jeered. “Just walking,” Val replied curtly, eyes down. “Oi, mate, you paying tax to walk that mutt?” one of the kids laughed. “See, he’s proper ugly—look at that dodgy eye!” A rock whistled past and struck Ginger’s side. The mongrel yelped and pressed close to Val’s shin. “Leave it,” Val said quietly, but his voice had an edge as sharp as glass. “Oooh, Percy the Tinkerer’s found his tongue!” Steve swaggered closer. “You remember whose patch this is? Dogs walk here if I say so. Got it?” Val tensed. Army training taught him to handle trouble swiftly and decisively—but that was thirty years ago. Now he was just a weary, retired fitter who didn’t want any more hassle. “C’mon, Ginger,” Val turned for home. “Yeah, you better run!” Steve called after him. “Next time I’ll finish off your freak for good!” Val lay awake all night, the confrontation twisting in his mind. The next day, sleet drummed on the windows. Val delayed the walk, but Ginger waited by the door with such faithful insistence he couldn’t refuse. “All right, all right. Just a quick one.” They steered clear of the usual haunts, but Steve’s gang were nowhere to be seen—probably hiding from the foul weather. Val was just beginning to relax when Ginger stopped dead near the old boiler house. His one good ear pricked up, sniffing. “What’s up, old boy?” Ginger whined and tugged towards the derelict. Strange noises filtered out—maybe crying, maybe groans. “Hello? Anyone there?” Val called out. No answer, just wind howling through broken brick. Ginger pulled urgently. There was fear in that one bright eye. “What is it?” Val knelt beside him. “What’s going on?” Then, he heard it—a child’s voice, desperate: “Help! Please!” Val’s heart skipped. He unclipped Ginger’s lead and followed into the ruins. Behind crumbling bricks, a boy of twelve huddled, beaten and crying—split lip, torn clothes. “Oh my God!” Val knelt. “What’s happened, son?” “Mr Williams? Is that you?” the boy peered up. Val looked closer and recognized him—Andy Moore, the quiet lad from no. 5. “Andy! Who did this?” “Steve and his lot,” Andy sniffed. “They wanted money off my mum. I told them I’d tell the police. They caught me…” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. S-so cold.” Val shrugged off his coat and wrapped Andy. Ginger pressed close, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand, son?” “My leg… I think it’s broken.” Val carefully examined it. Definitely a break. Who knew what else was wrong? “You got a phone?” “They took it.” Val fished out his battered old Nokia, dialled for an ambulance. “Hold on, Andy. Help’s coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m still alive?” Andy’s voice trembled. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t lay a finger on you,” Val promised. “Not ever again.” Andy stared at him in disbelief: “But you ran off from them yesterday…” “That was just me and Ginger. This time—it’s different.” He left the rest unsaid. How to explain the old soldier’s code—that real men don’t abandon children in trouble? The ambulance came quicker than expected. They took Andy away. Val waited by the boiler house, thoughts churning. That evening, Andy’s mum, Mrs Moore, came to his door in tears, thanking him over and over. “Mr Williams,” she sobbed, “they said if he’d been out there another hour… You saved his life!” “Wasn’t me,” Val said, stroking Ginger’s head. “Ginger found your boy.” “But what now?” Mrs Moore stared anxiously at the door. “Steve’s still out there. The police say there’s no proof—one kid’s word doesn’t count.” “It’ll be all right,” Val promised, though he had no idea how. He tossed in bed that night, restless. How could he protect Andy—and the rest of the area’s kids—from this gang? By morning, the answer was clear. Val put on his old British Army dress uniform—medals shining, jacket crisp. He checked the mirror—a soldier, even if greying and slowed by time. “Come on, Ginger. We’ve got work to do.” Steve’s gang lurked by the shop as usual. Seeing Val approach in full regalia, the youths sniggered. “Here he comes, like it’s Remembrance Sunday!” one crowed. Steve hopped off the bench, smirking. “You lost, grandad? Your day’s done.” “On the contrary,” Val replied, walking straight up. “My day’s only beginning.” “Why you dressed like that, then?” “To do my duty. To protect the vulnerable—from the likes of you.” Steve snorted. “What planet are you on, grandpa? Who cares about ‘the vulnerable’?” “You remember Andy Moore?” The laughter slid off Steve’s face. “Why would I remember some muppet?” “You’d better. Because he’ll be the last kid you harm around here.” “You threatening me, old man?” “I’m warning you.” Steve stepped forward, a glint of metal in his hand. “Let’s see if you’ve still got the bottle—” Val didn’t budge. The old army steel was back. “The law runs this patch, not you.” “And who made you the law?” “My conscience.” Then, something unexpected happened. Ginger, silent until now, stood up tall—hackles raised, a deep growl rumbling from his chest. “Your mangy dog’s next,” Steve started. “My dog’s a war hero,” Val cut in calmly. “Afghan bomb squad. She can sniff out bad guys with her eyes closed.” Utter nonsense—Ginger was no more than a bin dog. But Val’s voice had such conviction, everyone bought it. Even Ginger, who straightened and bared her teeth like a K9 legend. “She’s taken down more villains than I can count,” Val went on. “Think she couldn’t handle one jumped-up yob?” Steve faltered. His mates froze behind him. “Listen carefully,” Val intoned, stepping closer. “From today, these streets are safe. I’ll be walking every alley, every day—and my dog will know every troublemaker. You get me?” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. “You can’t scare me, you fossil. One call and—” “Make your calls,” Val nodded. “Just remember—I have my own contacts. Blokes in the nick. Life owes me more favours than you could dream.” Not true, but Val sounded utterly convincing. “The name’s Val the Veteran,” he finished. “Remember it. And leave the kids alone.” He turned away. Ginger trotted beside him, tail high. Behind, silence. Within three days, Steve and his crew had all but disappeared. And Val kept his promise. Every evening, he patrolled the estate, Ginger at his side—watchful, indomitable. Andy left hospital a week later, still limping but on the mend. That very day he knocked on Val’s door. “Mr Williams, can I help? With your patrols, I mean.” “You’d best ask your mum first.” Mrs Moore agreed, relieved her son had found such a role model. So, every night, the oddest trio strolled the estate—a retired soldier in medals, a sturdy lad, and an old ginger dog. Ginger won everyone’s hearts; even the mums let their kids stroke her, scruffy as she was. Something about her was noble. Val told the kids stories of army brotherhood and loyalty. They listened, rapt. One evening, Andy asked: “Mr Williams, have you ever been scared?” “Of course,” Val replied honestly. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of not getting there in time. Not being strong enough.” Andy stroked Ginger. “When I grow up, I want to help too. Maybe I’ll have a dog as clever as Ginger.” “You will,” Val smiled. “I’m sure of it.” Ginger wagged her tail. And soon, everyone in the area knew it: “That’s Val the Veteran’s dog. She can spot a hero from a villain.” And Ginger proudly served, no longer just a stray—now a true defender of the neighbourhood.