The village of Willowbrook, nestled in the shadow of ancient oaks and elms, was slowly fading away. Once a bustling hub, now only twenty cottages remained, home to elderly folk forgotten by time. In its heyday, Willowbrook thrived—its sturdy timber houses, darkened by years of weather, held memories of craftsmen famed for their harnesses and wagons. But machines replaced horses, and the village withered. The surrounding woods, rich with life, turned treacherous in winter as hungry wolves prowled the outskirts, forcing locals to keep packs of dogs whose barks pierced the night, warning of danger.
By the 1950s, the fur trade that had sustained Willowbrook for generations dwindled. The village became a mere outpost of a sprawling farm collective. Former artisans became shepherds and milkmaids. Old Thomas Whitaker spent his life as a swineherd. From age ten, he tended piglets, and as a man, he cared for the prized breeding stock that was the envy of the county. But in the ’90s, the farm was looted, the livestock sold off, and Thomas, like the other elders, was pensioned off. The young fled to the cities, leaving the village a ghost of itself. Thomas’s son sold the last cows and moved away, leaving the old man and his ailing wife, Margaret, in their creaky house surrounded by empty barns. Life narrowed to the kitchen, an old telly, and endless silence.
Then, one spring, Thomas’s old friend, Peter Langley, rolled into Willowbrook with a gift—a tiny, ginger fluffball of a pup. “For your seventieth, Tom! This here’s a proper English Mastiff, top pedigree, champion bloodline. He’ll be loyal to the bone,” Peter said, flashing a photo of a hulking, medal-draped dog. “Raise him right, and he’ll win shows for miles!” Thomas cradled the whimpering pup, who nuzzled into his chest. He made a bed in a box, but the little thing whined for warmth. Margaret huffed, “Now you’ve got a baby to nurse!” Thomas dug out an old baby bottle, filled it with milk, and rocked the pup like an infant. “Missin’ his mum,” he muttered, ignoring her grumbles.
The pup grew like a weed. They called him Duke—for his noble air. He adored Thomas, shunned strangers, and soon became a fearsome guardian, obeying his master’s every word. Within a year, the scruffy ball of fur was a towering sentry, chasing off geese by day and sneaking into Thomas’s bed at night to warm his feet.
But trouble came to Willowbrook. Abandoned cottages on the edge of town began burning. The old ladies panicked, begging Thomas and Duke to patrol the lanes. So the old man became the night watchman. With Duke by his side, the fires stopped. Then strangers flooded in—city folk from London, snapping up empty homes and the meadows where cattle once grazed. By winter, a gated estate of posh mansions stood where the fields had been. The new owners hired Thomas to guard their treasures.
“Some flee villages for cities, others cities for villages,” Thomas mused, trudging the estate with Duke. “And us old lot? Left behind.” Time passed, and Margaret’s health worsened. Doctors prescribed insulin and diet, but Thomas caught her sneaking sweets, as if racing toward the end. In December, she slipped away quietly. At the funeral, the village widows clucked that she’d gone without last rites—the local chapel had crumbled decades ago.
By Margaret’s grave, Thomas vowed to rebuild it. He saved every penny, and half a year later, he trekked to the next village, where an old chapel to St. George stood. Back home, he dug foundations and hammered away. By autumn, a wooden chapel with a cross stood proud. The old women brought icons, including a weathered one of St. Nicholas, spared from harder times. The chapel was consecrated in his name, becoming a sanctuary for villagers and weekenders alike.
That winter, before Epiphany, unease gnawed at Thomas. He checked the chapel obsessively. On Christmas Eve, he bolted awake, heart pounding. Grabbing his shotgun, he and Duke charged through the snow. The dog burst ahead—then gunshots split the night. Thomas stumbled forward to find Duke bleeding in the snow. He fell to his knees, cradling the dog’s head, sobbing like a child. “Duke, my loyal boy… why?” he choked, cursing fate.
Neighbors and city folk rushed over. “Cries over a dog, not his wife,” one muttered. Then a shout: “The icon’s gone! St. Nicholas is stolen!” The crowd surged toward the chapel—but Thomas didn’t move. He stroked Duke, whispering, “We’ve been through so much… Remember when you dragged that lad from the frozen pond? Or stood guard when I took ill?” Duke licked his hand weakly. Realizing he was alive, Thomas tore his shirt to bandage the wound and bellowed, “Fetch the cart!”
At home, he injected penicillin, pressed plantain leaves to the wound, and sat vigil. “Sleep, Duke. We’ve more adventures yet,” he murmured, stroking his friend. He smiled, remembering how Duke understood every word. Once, guarding the estate, he’d bet some lads the dog knew speech. A cheeky boy joked, “Watch me stab the old man,” and Duke flattened him in a flash. “Lesson learned,” Thomas had laughed.
A year later, at New Year’s, Duke saved him again. At a Londoner’s mansion, the dog leaped the fence and pinned a prowler. Thomas recognized him—the shooter, the thief. “You devil,” he spat. “Thought you could steal and kill?” Duke waited for the order, but Thomas whispered, “He’ll return it. Let him go.” Reluctantly, the dog released him. Soon, St. Nicholas was back in the chapel, and Thomas and Duke kept watch over Willowbrook, knowing no trouble could break their bond.
