“You just do what’s right, Mike. So you don’t have to live with the shame later,” Lydia patted her husband’s uniform straight, brushed his cheek, and peered into his stern, icy grey eyes with that same old worry of hers.
No matter what people whispered behind his back, no matter how they gossiped, she knew her Michael inside out—every crease on his brow, every unspoken doubt. Side by side for almost thirty years, they’d been through it all: London’s bustle, endless relocations, the quiet gloom of small towns with short days and long evenings. Truth be told, life had dragged them all over, but they’d stuck it out. They’d even built themselves a proper home, solid timber, smelling of pine—strong enough to drown out the dreariest memories.
No kids, not for them. Grandkids? Out of the question. But they had each other—every single day, through thick and thin, in work and life. The gossip? People were like the wind—blowing hot air before fading away. They’d get over it. And if they didn’t? Tough. All that mattered was a clear conscience.
But the dogs… those blasted dogs…
It had been a month now, and the whole office could talk of nothing else. Those seven service dogs, the ones ordered to be “disposed of”—put down, plain and simple. Old, retired. Who’d want them now? Feed them? Nowhere to keep them, shelters packed to the rafters. Who’d defy orders? No one. And Colonel Hardcastle—he didn’t.
He read out the directive, asked if anyone wanted to take them in. Silence. Just the wind rattling the windowsills. So he nodded and called for the vets.
That was it. Cold. Military. Business as usual.
Hardcastle… what a name. “Hardy,” they’d nicknamed him the moment he arrived from London. Pride in his stance, steel in his voice, eyes like an X-ray—saw right through you. Zero forgiveness. Just duty, just honour. No surprise he’d sacked half the old guard within a year, replaced them with fresh blood. Sharp lads, honest ones. But who’d believe a man could be all edges, not a shred of softness?
And so the women clucked: “Serves him right, no kids! What kind of father would he be? He’d have them in tears with all his rules. Didn’t deserve them. Not fit for it!”
Meanwhile, Michael Thomas stood in the yard, watching as the last crate was loaded into the back of a white van. Inside sat an old husky—white as a blizzard. Max.
His black button eyes stared at the Colonel, confused, waiting—explain. Why couldn’t he stay? Why couldn’t he live? And Hardy stood silent.
“Drive on, Col,” he muttered to the driver and climbed into his car. The van lurched forward, rolling past the gate under the sharp looks of his men. Someone hissed: “Good riddance! Hardy gets what he deserves. Let him live with that.”
The van pulled up to the vet’s office. Drove right past it.
When they turned off the main road, the driver stayed quiet. Just his hands trembling. And when the van stopped outside the Colonel’s house, he finally cracked:
“Sir… what’s this?”
“I followed orders. Wrote them off the books. Where I wrote them off? Not your concern.”
Hardy stepped out. There stood Lydia by the gate, silent, handkerchief clutched in hand, heart in her throat. He gave a nod.
“Unload them. They live here now.”
“Doing what’s right, Mike?”
“Doing what’s right, Lyd.”
One by one, the dogs hopped out, paws tentative on the gravel, sniffing the air, adjusting. Michael pulled his wife close. His thoughts churned: “Not grandkids, sure. But a right handful. We’ll build runs. Warm kennels. Got spare timber from the shed…”
The driver interrupted him.
“What do we tell people?”
“Tell them nothing. Let them gossip. People have tongues, dogs have tails. Can’t please everyone. I’m needed here. Lydia can’t manage this lot alone.”
The driver left. But he’d be back by evening. Not because of orders. Because of conscience. Because of heart.
And he wouldn’t come alone. He’d bring his wife and sons. Fetch Simon from accounts, Alex from maintenance, Olivia and her twin girls. They’d bring pies and water, and they’d build the runs. Because you can’t just follow orders—not with living souls. Because Hardy wasn’t so hard after all. He just… did what was right.
And if anyone dared say again that the Colonel didn’t deserve children—let them try. They’d have their tongues torn out. Because Hardy had kids. Not by blood. By truth. By kindness. By heart.
And that was what mattered.
