The old man and his faithful guardian
The village of Willowbrook, nestled beneath the shadows of ancient oaks and elms, was slowly fading away. Not long ago, it had buzzed with life, but now only twenty households remained, where elderly folk lived out their days, forgotten by the world. In its heyday, Willowbrook thrived: sturdy timber cottages, their roofs darkened by time, held memories of days when local craftsmen were famed for their harnesses and carts. But as machines replaced horses, the village withered. The surrounding woods were rich with bounty, but in winter they grew perilous—hungry wolves prowled the outskirts, forcing villagers to keep packs of dogs whose barks split the night, a grim warning of danger.
By the fifties, the fur trade, which had sustained Willowbrook for centuries, dwindled. The village became little more than a farm for a sprawling estate. Former craftsmen turned to herding and dairy work. Old man Alfred Thompson had spent his life as a swineherd. From the age of ten, he’d tended piglets, and as a man, he cared for a prized breeding herd that won acclaim across the county. But in the nineties, the estate was stripped bare, the livestock sold off, and Alfred—like the other old-timers—was pensioned off. The young folk fled to the cities, leaving the village hollow. Alfred’s son sold the cows and moved away, leaving the old man and his ailing wife, Margaret, in their large house, surrounded by empty barns. Life narrowed to the kitchen, an ancient telly, and endless silence.
Then, one spring, an old friend of Alfred’s, Peter Whittaker, visited Willowbrook—bringing a gift. A tiny, rust-coloured ball of fluff. “For your seventieth, Alf! It’s a Border Collie pup, purebred, champion stock. He’ll be loyal as they come—ready to lay down his life for you,” said Peter, showing a photo of a massive, medal-covered dog. “Raise him right, and he’ll win shows across the country!” Alfred took the puppy, and it nuzzled into his chest. He made it a bed in a box, but the pup whined, craving warmth. Margaret grumbled, “Now you’ve got a pup to fuss over!” Alfred dug out an old baby bottle, filled it with milk, and rocked the pup like an infant. “Misses his mum,” he muttered, ignoring his wife’s scoffs.
The pup grew fast. They named him Duke—for his proud spirit. He trusted only Alfred, despised strangers, and soon became a formidable guardian, obeying his master’s every word. Within a year, the tiny fluffball was a mighty sentry, keeping geese and chickens in line by day and sneaking into Alfred’s bed at night to warm his feet.
But trouble came to Willowbrook. Abandoned houses on the edge of the village began burning. The old women panicked, begging Alfred and Duke to patrol the streets. So the old man became the night watchman. With Duke by his side, they walked the lanes—and the fires stopped. Soon, however, outsiders descended—Londoners buying up empty homes and the meadow where cattle once grazed. By winter, a gated estate of luxury homes stood there, ringed by a concrete wall. The newcomers hired Alfred to guard their wealth.
“Some flee the village for the city, others the city for the village,” mused Alfred as he and Duke walked the estate. “And us old folk? Left behind, unwanted.” Time passed, and Margaret’s health worsened. Doctors prescribed diet and insulin, but Alfred caught her sneaking sweets, as if hastening her end. In December, she slipped away quietly. At the funeral, the old women fretted—Margaret had gone without last rites, for Willowbrook’s church had crumbled decades ago.
By Margaret’s grave, Alfred vowed to build a chapel. He saved every penny, and half a year later, he visited a neighbouring hamlet with an ancient chapel dedicated to St. George. Returning, he dug a foundation and began building. By autumn, a wooden chapel stood, a cross atop it. The old women brought icons, among them an ancient image of St. Christopher, spared from darker times. The chapel was consecrated in his name, becoming a place of prayer for villagers and weekenders alike.
That winter, before Epiphany, unease gnawed at Alfred. He checked the chapel obsessively. On Christmas Eve, nodding off in his chair, he jolted awake—something was wrong. Grabbing his shotgun, he and Duke raced outside. The dog bolted ahead—then gunshots shattered the night. Alfred stumbled through the snow to find Duke on the roadside, blood seeping into the white. The old man dropped to his knees, cradling the dog’s head, weeping like a child. “Duke, my lad… why?” he moaned, cursing fate.
Neighbours and weekenders crowded around. “Cries over a dog, but not his wife,” one muttered. Then a shout: “The icon’s gone! St. Christopher’s been stolen!” They surged toward the chapel—but Alfred didn’t move. He stroked Duke, whispering, “We’ve been through so much… Remember when you dragged that boy from the ice? Or when you stayed by my sickbed?” Duke weakly licked his hand. Feeling a pulse, Alfred tore his shirt to bandage the wound and bellowed, “Fetch a cart!”
At home, he injected Duke with penicillin, pressed plantain to the wound, and sat vigil. “Rest, lad. We’ve more adventures yet,” he murmured, stroking his friend. He smiled, remembering how Duke understood words. Once, guarding the estate, he’d bet some lads the dog knew speech. One joker grinned, “Watch—I’ll take this knife and slit the old man’s throat.” Duke pinned him in an instant. “Lesson learned,” Alfred had chuckled.
A year later, at New Year’s, Duke saved him again. Sniffing danger, he leaped a fence and pinned a youth—the very thief who’d shot him and stolen the icon. “You wretch,” Alfred spat. “Thought you could steal and kill without consequence?” Duke waited for the command, but Alfred whispered, “He’ll return it. Let him go.” Reluctantly, the dog released him. Soon, St. Christopher was back in the chapel, and Alfred and Duke kept watch over Willowbrook, knowing their bond was stronger than any trouble.
