The old man and his faithful guardian
The village of Humberton, nestled in the shadows of ancient oaks and beeches, was slowly fading. Only a handful of cottages remained where the elderly lived out their days, forgotten by the world. Once, Humberton had thrived—its sturdy timber houses, their roofs darkened by time, whispered of days when local craftsmen were famed for their harnesses and wagons. But with the rise of machinery, the need for horses vanished, and the village withered. The surrounding woods were rich with game, yet in winter they grew perilous—hungry wolves prowled the outskirts, forcing villagers to keep dogs whose barks pierced the night, a warning of danger.
By the fifties, the tanning trade that had sustained the village for generations dwindled. Humberton became a mere outpost of a large state farm. Former craftsmen turned to herding and milking. Old man Alfred Thompson had spent his life as a swineherd. From the age of ten, he tended piglets, and as a man, he cared for the breeding stock that once brought pride to the region. But in the nineties, the farm was plundered, the livestock sold, and Alfred, like the other elders, was pensioned off. The young fled to the city, leaving Humberton hollow. Alfred’s son sold the cows and left with his family, abandoning the old man and his ailing wife, Margaret, in their spacious house surrounded by empty barns. Life narrowed to the kitchen, an old telly, and endless silence.
Then, one spring, an old friend of Alfred’s, William Harley, arrived with a gift—a tiny bundle of russet fur. “For your seventieth, Alfred!” William said, grinning. “A purebred English Mastiff pup, from fine stock. He’ll be loyal to the bone, ready to lay down his life for you.” He showed a photo of a massive dog draped in ribbons. “Raise him right, and he’ll win trophies for the county!” Alfred cradled the pup, who nuzzled into his chest. That night, the whimpering creature refused to settle in its box. Margaret scoffed, “Now you’ve got a pup to fuss over!” Alfred found an old baby’s bottle, filled it with milk, and rocked the pup like an infant. “He misses his mother,” he muttered, ignoring her grumbles.
The pup grew swiftly. They named him Duke, for his noble bearing. He trusted only Alfred, shunned strangers, and soon became a formidable guardian, obeying his master’s every word. Within a year, the tiny ball of fluff had become a mighty sentry, keeping geese and chickens in line by day and warming Alfred’s feet by night.
But trouble came to Humberton. Abandoned cottages on the outskirts began to burn. The old women panicked, begging Alfred and Duke to patrol the village. So the old man became the night watchman. With Duke at his side, the fires stopped. Yet soon, strangers poured in—wealthy Londoners, snapping up empty homes and the meadow where cattle once grazed. By winter, a gated estate of grand houses stood in its place. The newcomers hired Alfred to guard their property.
“Some flee villages for cities, others cities for villages,” Alfred mused as he walked the estate with Duke. “And we old folk? Left behind, forgotten.” Time wore on, and Margaret’s health failed. Doctors prescribed insulin, but Alfred caught her sneaking sweets, as though hastening her end. In December, she passed quietly. At the funeral, the village women lamented that she’d gone without last rites—Humberton’s chapel had been torn down long ago.
By her grave, Alfred vowed to build a new one. He saved his wages, and half a year later, he visited a neighbouring hamlet where an ancient chapel to St. George still stood. Returning, he dug the foundation himself and began to build. By autumn, a wooden chapel stood, crowned by a cross. The women brought icons, among them an old image of St. Christopher, spared from harder times. The chapel was consecrated in his name, becoming a place of prayer for villagers and weekenders alike.
That winter, before Epiphany, unease gripped Alfred. He checked the chapel often. On Christmas Eve, he jolted awake from a doze, heart pounding. Grabbing his shotgun, he and Duke raced through the snow. The dog surged ahead—then gunfire cracked the night. Alfred stumbled forward to find Duke bleeding in the snow. He fell to his knees, cradling the dog’s head, weeping like a child. “Duke, my faithful… why?” he groaned, cursing fate.
The villagers and estate owners gathered. “Mourns a dog more than his own wife,” one muttered. Then a cry rose: “The icon—St. Christopher’s gone!” They rushed to the chapel, but Alfred stayed, stroking Duke’s fur, whispering, “We’ve been through so much… Remember when you dragged that boy from the frozen pond? Or when you licked my fever away?” Duke weakly licked his hand. Realising he lived, Alfred tore his shirt for a bandage and bellowed, “Fetch a cart!”
At home, he injected penicillin, pressed moss to the wound, and sat vigil. “Rest, Duke,” he murmured. “We’ve runs left in us yet.” He smiled, recalling how Duke understood speech. Once, guarding the estate, he’d bet some lads the dog could. A boy joked, “Watch, I’ll knife the old man.” Duke pinned him instantly. “Lesson learned,” Alfred had chuckled.
A year later, at Yuletide, Duke saved him again. Sniffing danger at a Londoner’s house, he leapt the fence and pinned a youth—the thief who’d shot him and stolen the icon. “Devil,” Alfred spat. “Thought you could rob and kill?” Duke waited for the command, but Alfred whispered, “He’ll return it. Let him go.” Reluctantly, the dog released him. Soon, St. Christopher’s icon was back in the chapel, and Alfred and Duke kept watch over Humberton, knowing no trouble could break their bond.
