“Come on then, Ginger – let’s go,” muttered Val, adjusting the makeshift lead fashioned from an old bit of rope. He zipped his jacket up tight against the raw February wind – this year, it was particularly cruel: sleet, biting cold, and drizzle that seemed to cut straight through. Ginger, the mangy old stray with faded red fur and one milky, blind eye, had wandered into Val’s life a year ago. It was after a late-night shift at the factory, near the bins, battered and hungry, his left eye glazed. A harsh voice cut through the grey morning. Val recognised it at once – Steve ‘Squint’, the local hard case, barely out of his teens, surrounded by his pack of sneering lads. “Out with the mutt, are we?” Steve leered, as one of the boys cackled, “What’s it, Uncle – you pay a tax to walk that ugly brute? Scary thing, that eye!” A stone came flying, thudding into Ginger’s side. The dog yelped and pressed closer to Val’s leg. “Clear off,” Val said quietly, but there was steel in his voice. “Ooh, look, Uncle Bodger’s talking back!” Steve stepped closer. “Seen your kind before. Remember whose patch this is… And only dogs I let on my patch are here with permission.” Val tensed. The Army had taught him how to solve trouble – fast and hard. But that was thirty years ago. Now, he was just a worn-out old handyman, wouldn’t say boo to a goose unless pushed. “Come on, Ginger,” he muttered, turning towards home. “Thought so!” Steve jeered after him. “Keep your ugly mutt safe, old man – next time, I’ll finish it for good.” That night, Val replayed the incident over and over in his mind. Next day, with heavy snow coming down, he put off walking as long as he could – but Ginger sat by the door, steadfast, until Val finally relented. “All right, all right – but just a quick one.” They kept to quieter routes; Steve’s lot was nowhere in sight, probably sheltering from the weather. Val was starting to relax when Ginger suddenly halted by the derelict boiler house, ears pricked, nose twitching. “What’s up, old boy?” The dog whined, tugged the rope in the direction of the ruined building. Strange noises drifted out: was that crying? Moaning? “Hello? Who’s there?” Val called. Only the wind replied, howling through the skeleton of the building. Ginger pulled insistently. Val heard it then – a child’s voice: “Help!” His heart skipped. Quickly, Val unfastened the lead and followed Ginger into the ruins. Buried behind a tumble of brick, a young boy lay crumpled: face swollen, lip split, clothes torn. “Oh, God!” Val dropped to his knees. “What’s happened to you?” “Mr. White? Is that you?” The boy squinted through bruised eyes, and Val recognised him – Andy Mason, the shy lad from three floors up. “Andy! What happened?” “Steve and his gang… They wanted money from my mum. I said I’d tell the police. They… they found me.” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. It’s freezing.” Val shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around Andy. Ginger curled up beside him, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand?” “My leg hurts – think it’s broken.” Val checked gently – definitely a break. “Got a phone?” “Taken.” Val fished out his ancient Nokia and dialled for an ambulance. “Hold on, lad. Help’s coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m alive?” Andy asked in terror. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t touch you again,” Val promised. Andy stared. “But yesterday… you just walked away.” “That was just me and Ginger. This is different.” The ambulance arrived quicker than forecast. Andy was whisked off to hospital. Val stood with Ginger in the snow, deep in thought. That evening, Andy’s mum, Mrs. Mason, came to thank him, in tears: “If you hadn’t found him… The doctor said you saved his life!” “It wasn’t me,” Val shook his head, petting Ginger. “He found your son.” “But what now?” the woman whispered anxiously. “Steve won’t stop. The police say there’s no proof.” “It’ll be sorted,” Val promised, though he wasn’t sure how. That night, he tossed and turned, plans churning. Someone had to protect the kids – how many others had suffered in silence? By morning, he knew what to do. He pulled out his old Army dress uniform, pinned on his medals, squared his shoulders. “Let’s go, Ginger. We’ve got work to do.” Steve and his crew lounged by the off-licence, jeering as Val, in full regalia, approached. “Blimey, Grandad’s off to a parade!” one hooted. Steve sneered, “Jog on, soldier boy. Your time’s up.” “My time’s just begun,” Val replied. “Who asked you?” “Andy Mason – ring any bells?” Steve’s smirk faded. “You threatening me, grandad?” “I’m warning you.” There was a glint of a blade. “I’ll show you who’s boss!” Val didn’t flinch. “There’s only one law here – and that’s to protect the weak.” Steve scoffed, “Who made you sheriff?” “My conscience.” And then – the unexpected: Ginger, silent all this while, bristled and let out a low, threatening growl. “My dog fought in Afghanistan,” Val said, lying smoothly. “Bomb squad. She can sniff out villains in her sleep.” Even Ginger straightened in surprise, baring her teeth. “She caught twenty insurgents. All alive. Think she can’t take on a junkie?” Steve retreated. “Listen good,” Val stepped forward. “From today, it’s safe here. I’ll be patrolling the estate every evening – with my dog. If I catch anyone bothering kids again…” He left the threat hanging. “You reckon you can scare me?” Steve blustered. “Call who you like. But remember – I know people inside. More than you ever will.” It was nonsense, but Val’s words carried real weight. “Name’s Val the Veteran – remember it. Stay away from the kids.” With that, Val strode away, Ginger close at his heels. Steve’s gang melted away. For the next few days, Steve and his lot were nowhere to be seen, while Val and Ginger kept up their patrol. When Andy came home from hospital, still limping, he shyly asked, “Mr. White, can I help you patrol, too?” “Talk to your mum first.” Mrs. Mason agreed – relieved her boy had such a grown-up example to follow. And every evening, the estate saw a peculiar trio – an old soldier in faded uniform, a boy, and a ginger mongrel. Ginger became a favourite; even the parents didn’t mind their kids petting her. There was something noble about her. Val told stories about the Army, about real friendship; the children listened, rapt. One night, Andy asked, “Were you ever scared, Mr. White?” “Plenty of times,” Val admitted. “Even now, sometimes.” “What of?” “That I won’t have enough strength. Or I’ll be too late.” “When I grow up, I’ll help you,” Andy said. “And I’ll have a clever dog just like Ginger.” “You will,” Val smiled. And Ginger wagged her tail. Everyone in the area knew her now: “That’s Val the Veteran’s dog – she knows the difference between heroes and bullies.” And Ginger patrolled, proud and steadfast, no longer just a stray, but a true guardian.

Well then, Rusty, shall we? grumbled Harold, adjusting the makeshift leash fashioned from a faded bit of washing line.
He zipped his parka up to the chin and shivered. February had taken a ferocious turn this year sleet, whipping winds, cold that seemed to sneak through every seam.
Rustys gingered, muddied fur and clouded left eye made him a peculiar figure along the row of terrace houses, but Harold barely remembered a time before hed found the old mongrel.
A year ago, finishing a night shift at the biscuit factory, Harold had tramped past the council bins when hed seen the battered dog, ribs prominent, blinking uncertainly with his good eye, watching the world from shadows cast by a flickering streetlamp. Hed brought him home on a whim and a sudden ache.
A shrill, jeering voice sliced the air. Harolds stomach sank; he recognised that tone. Brian Slater, barely out of school but already ruling the estate with his little gang of hangers-on.
Walkies, then? Brian sneered, flanked by three spotty lads in sportswear.
One foot in front of the other, Harold muttered, eyes on the pavement.
You pay a licence for that mess? Oi, look at its wonky face! one of the boys cackled.
A stone thudded against Rustys rib. The dog whined and pressed close.
Enough, said Harold evenly; something cold and final in his tone.
Oh, here he goes! Grandads found his voice! Brian swaggered closer. Forget this estates mine, have you? That mongrel walks where I say he walks.
Harold fought the urge to clench his fists. The army had taught him how to deal quick, harsh justice, but the Gulf War was thirty years behind him, and now he was just a tired old metalworker, more willing to walk away than to fight.
Come on, Rusty, he murmured, turning.
Yeah, off you trot! Brian hollered after him. And next time, that ugly mutt gets it!
Harold slept little that night, replaying their threats over and over.
The following morning, it was sleeting sideways, but Rusty waited at the door, one ear cocked, hope in the good eye. Harold stalled, but gave in at last.
Put your best paw forward, then. Lets make it quick.
They picked a winding route, dodging parks and arcades where the boys usually lurked, but even the vandals seemed daunted by the hail.
Just as Harold relaxed, Rusty froze beside the hollowed shell of the old boilerhouse, nose twitching, hackles up.
Whats up, old lad?
Rusty tugged him toward the crumbling bricks. Somewhere inside, a sound quivered uncertain, inhuman. Sobbing?
Whos there? Harold called, voice caught up in the wailing wind. Silence answered, shivered through shards of broken glass.
Rusty pulled hard, trembling. The fear in his one eye sent a jolt through Harolds gut.
Then, unmistakable: Help! a childs voice, close and plaintive.
Instinct took over. Unclipping Rusty, Harold lurched after. Together, they picked their way inside, stepping over damp detritus and fallen tiles.
Behind a mound of broken bricks, a boy no older than twelve lay crumpled, blood at his lip, school trousers dirtied and torn.
Dear God, Harold dropped to his knees. Whats happened?
Uncle Harold? Is it you? the boy blinked, trying hard to focus.
Harold registered the freckled face, the ginger fringe: it was Jamie, Mrs. Bishops quiet son from upstairs.
Jamie! Who did this?
It was Brian and the others, Jamie whimpered. They wanted money from Mum. I said Id tell the constable. They found me
How longve you been here?
Since this morning. Scold
Harold shed his coat and tucked it around him. Rusty nosed in close, pressing shaggy warmth against the boys side.
Think you can walk, Jamie?
My leg hurts. Bad.
Gingerly, Harold checked it surely broken. Could be internal damage, too, after that sort of beating.
They took your phone?
Jamie nodded.
Harold fished out his elderly mobile and dialled 999. Emergency said help would arrive in half an hour.
Hang in there, lad. The ambulance is coming.
Terror prickled Jamies voice: If Brian finds out Im alivehe said hed finish me proper.
Harold squeezed his shoulder. He wont. Not now. Not ever again.
The boy fixed Harold with pleading eyes.
But yesterdayyou ran from them, Uncle Harold.
Harold breathed deep. Yesterday was different. That was just me and Rusty. Now its about all of us.
An old truth sat heavy in his mind: a soldier never leaves a child behind.
The ambulance arrived sooner than promised. Jamie was bundled off to the hospital, leaving Harold and Rusty alone in the wind, uncertain but resolute.
That evening, Mrs. Bishop arrived, tearful, hands trembling, gratitude pouring out with her words.
Mr. Harold, they said if hed lain there another hour
He nodded at Rusty. Its him you should thank, not me. He found Jamie.
Her voice lowered, fretful: But Brianhell want revenge. Police say not enough to press charges. Just the word of a child
Itll be alright, Harold promised, not quite believing it himself.
Sleep was a stranger that night.
By dawn, Harold had a plan. He brushed dust from his old regimental suit, pinned medals on the chest, and regarded his reflection. The lines on his face had deepened, but somehow, the uniform still fit.
Time to go, Rusty, he said.
Brians crew clustered beside the off-licence, trading smokes and snide remarks.
Cor! On parade, are we, grandad? one of the boys called.
Brian smirked at his old jacket. What, coming to relive your glory days?
My time heres only just begun, Harold replied.
Brian rolled his eyes. Should be in a home, you should.
Harold stood tall. I swore an oath. To protect the vulnerable.
The sneer left Brians face.
You remember Jamie Bishop?
Why should I care about some sniveller?
You should. Because hes the last child youll touch on this estate.
Brian squared up, flashing a penknife.
Old man, youd best back off, or Ill cut that coat off your back.
Harold didnt move. Years of drill steadied his feet.
The laws in charge now.
Law? Laws what I say it is! Brian hissed, blade glittering.
My conscience makes the laws here, Harold said, voice low.
Rusty, silent till then, slowly stood and bristled, lips curling, growl breaking the hush.
Brian tried bravado. Sjust a mutt!
That dog, Harold interrupted, served in the Middle East. Bomb squad. He can sniff out a villain by the way his heart beats.
It wasnt true, but the estate boys believed it. Even Rusty seemed to stand taller, the hero of a story hed never lived.
Hes found a score of men with worse souls than yours, Brian, and seen, each time, justice meted out.
Brian retreated a pace. So did the rest.
From today, this place is safe, Harold said. Ill be on patrol every night. My dog will sniff out cowards and bullies, and
He left the threat unfinished.
You wont scare me! Brian puffed up, but his voice faltered.
Ring who you want, Harold replied. But I know folk who owe me heavier debts. Prisoners and coppers both.
Another bluff, but his tone brooked no challenge.
Harold the Gulf Vet, thats me, he finished. Remember that name. And leave the kids alone.
He walked away, Rusty beside him, tail high, the hush behind them loaded with new respect.
Within days, Brian and his crew melted away, glowering but beaten.
True to his word, Harold took to walking the estate each afternoon. Rusty followed, alert and grave.
Within the week, Jamie came home on crutches, and that evening he knocked on Harolds door.
Mr. Harold? Please, can I help you with your rounds?
Ask your mother first, Jamie.
Mrs. Bishop was only too pleased.
So each evening, the neighbourhood saw a strange little patrol: the old soldier in pressed suit, a ginger dog, and a hobbling boy.
Rusty soon became the darling of every doorstep. Even the prickliest mums let their children stroke him, for dignity, not fear, shone in his one good eye.
Harold always had a story: about his regiment, about friendship, about looking after each other. The children hung on every word.
One dusky night, after patrol, Jamie asked:
Were you ever scared, Mr. Harold?
I was frightened plenty of times, Harold answered honestly. Still am, now and then.
Of what?
Not being enough. Not getting there in time.
Jamie stooped to stroke Rustys wiry fur.
When I grow up, Ill help you. Ill get a dog, too. One just like Rusty.
You will, Harold smiled. Better even, maybe.
Rusty wagged his tail, pleased with his dreamt-up glory.
Soon, everyone knew them: Thats Rusty, the Gulf Vets dog. He knows a hero when he sees one.
And Rusty, heart full, strode by Harolds side no longer a stray, but a defender, dream-wrought saviour of his very own estate.