**The Old Man and His Faithful Guardian**
The village of Blackwater, nestled beneath ancient oaks and elms, was slowly fading. Not long ago, it had bustled with life, but now only twenty cottages remained, where forgotten elders lived out their days. In its prime, Blackwater thrived—solid timber homes, darkened by time, stood testament to the days when local craftsmen were famed for their harnesses and carts. But with the rise of machines, the need for horses vanished, and the village withered. The surrounding woods held riches, yet winter brought danger—hungry wolves prowled the edges, forcing villagers to keep dogs whose barks shattered the night, warning of trouble.
By the fifties, the fur trade that had sustained the village for generations dwindled. Blackwater became little more than a farm for a large estate. The artisans became shepherds and milkmaids. Old man Frank Wilson had spent his life as a swineherd. From the age of ten, he’d tended piglets, and as he grew, he cared for the breeding stock that once made the village proud. But in the nineties, the estate was plundered, the livestock sold, and Frank, like the other elders, was pensioned off. The young fled to the cities, leaving the village hollow. Frank’s son sold the cows and moved away, abandoning him and his ailing wife, Margaret, in their large house, surrounded by empty barns. Life became still: the kitchen, an old telly, and endless silence.
Then, one spring, Frank’s old friend Edward Tanner visited, bearing a gift—a tiny bundle of reddish fur. “For your seventieth, Frank! It’s a purebred English Mastiff pup, fine bloodline. He’ll be a loyal friend, ready to lay down his life for you,” Edward said, showing a photo of a massive dog draped in medals. “Raise him right, and he’ll win shows across the county!” Frank cradled the pup, who nestled trustingly against his chest. He made the dog a bed in a box, but the pup whined, seeking warmth. Margaret grumbled, “Now you’ve got a pup to fuss over!” Frank found an old baby bottle, filled it with milk, and rocked the pup like a child. “He misses his mother,” he muttered, brushing off her complaints.
The pup grew fast. They named him Duke—for his proud bearing. He obeyed only Frank, shunned strangers, and soon became a formidable guardian, understanding his master’s every word. Within a year, the tiny ball of fur was a mighty protector, chasing off errant hens and geese by day, and at night, curling up at Frank’s feet to warm them.
But trouble came to Blackwater. On the village outskirts, abandoned homes began burning. The elderly women panicked, begging Frank and Duke to patrol the streets. So the old man became the village watchman. With the dog at his side, they walked the lanes, and the fires ceased. Soon, however, outsiders arrived—wealthy Londoners buying up empty homes and the meadowlands where cattle once grazed. By winter, luxury cottages stood behind concrete fences. The newcomers hired Frank to guard their property.
“Some run from the village to the city, others flee the city for the village,” Frank mused, walking the estate with Duke. “And we old folk—left behind, wanted by no one.” Time passed, and Margaret’s health worsened. Doctors prescribed insulin and a strict diet, but Frank caught her sneaking sweets, as if hurrying toward her end. In December, she died quietly. At the funeral, the old women lamented that she’d gone without last rites—the village church had been torn down long ago.
Beside Margaret’s grave, Frank vowed to build a chapel. He saved his wages, and half a year later, he visited a neighbouring village where an ancient chapel to St. George still stood. Returning, he dug a foundation and began building. By autumn, a wooden chapel stood beneath a newly raised cross. The old women brought icons, among them an ancient image of St. Nicholas, spared from darker times. They dedicated the chapel to him, and it became a place of prayer for villagers and summer visitors alike.
That winter, before Christmas, unease gnawed at Frank. He checked the chapel more often. On Christmas Eve, he dozed off but jerked awake, seized by dread. Grabbing his shotgun, he and Duke raced into the night. The dog surged ahead—then gunshots split the silence. Frank stumbled through the snow, finding Duke on the roadside, blood staining the white ground. The old man dropped to his knees, cradling the dog’s head, weeping like a child. “Duke, my faithful boy… why?” he choked, cursing fate.
Villagers and holidaymakers gathered. “Crying over a dog, but not a tear for Margaret,” one woman sneered. Then a shout—”The icon’s gone! St. Nicholas—stolen!” The crowd rushed to the chapel, but Frank didn’t move. He stroked Duke, murmuring, “We’ve been through so much… Remember when you dragged that boy from the frozen pond? Or the time you stayed by my sickbed?” Duke weakly licked his hand, and Frank, realising he still lived, tore off his shirt to bandage the wound, bellowing, “Fetch the cart!”
At home, he gave the dog penicillin, pressed plantain to the wound, and sat vigil. “Sleep, Duke. We’ll run together again,” he whispered, stroking his friend. He smiled, recalling how Duke understood his words. Once, guarding the estate, he’d wagered with some lads that the dog knew speech. One joker grinned, “Right, I’ll grab a knife and slit the old man’s throat.” Duke pinned him instantly. “Lesson learned,” Frank had laughed.
A year later, at New Year’s, Duke saved Frank again. Sensing danger, the mastiff cleared a fence and pinned a man. Frank recognised him—the same thief who’d shot Duke and stolen the icon. “You devil,” Frank spat. “Thought you could steal and kill without consequence?” The dog waited for command, but Frank whispered, “He’ll return it. Let him go.” Reluctantly, Duke obeyed. Soon, St. Nicholas was back in the chapel, and Frank and Duke kept watch over Blackwater, their bond unbroken by any trial.
**Lesson:** A true friend’s worth is measured not in years, but in loyalty—and sometimes, a dog’s love outshines all else.
