**”Didn’t Earn It?”**
“You, Mick, just do what’s right. So you won’t be ashamed of yourself later,” Lydia patted her husband’s uniform, smoothed his cheek, and searched his stern, steel-grey eyes with that familiar worry.
No matter what people whispered behind his back, no matter how they wagged their tongues, she knew Michael inside out. Every crease on his brow, every buried thought, every unspoken doubt. Side by side—nearly thirty years. They’d endured it all: the rush of London, the endless moves, the grimy backwaters where days were short and nights stretched long. Blimey, life had tossed them everywhere. But they’d held fast. Built a proper home, solid as oak, smelling of fresh timber. The scent of pine could drown even the gloomiest memories.
Children never came. Grandkids? Hardly. But they’d been given each other—not just for the easy days, but for every single one, thick and thin, duty and life. And the gossip? People were like the wind—blowing hot, making noise, then fading. They’d survive it. And if they didn’t? So be it. All that mattered was a clear conscience.
But the dogs… those blasted dogs…
For a month, the whole station had talked of nothing else. The seven service dogs due to be “disposed of”—put down, plain and simple. Old, spent. Who needed them now? No money to feed them, no place to keep them, shelters bursting at the seams. Who’d defy orders? Not a soul. And Colonel Hardy—he didn’t either.
He read out the directive, asked if anyone would take the dogs to live out their days. Silence. Just the wind whistling through the windows. So he nodded and called for the vet.
That was that. Cold. Military precision. As always.
Hardy… Hard as nails. The nickname “Hardman” stuck the moment he’d arrived from London. Pride in his stance, steel in his voice, eyes like an X-ray—seeing right through you. No mercy. Just the rulebook, just honour. No surprise he’d cleared out half the old guard in a year, brought in new blood. Sharp lads, honest. But who’d believe a man had no softness? No warmth at all?
So the wives clucked: “Serves him right, no kids! What kind of father would he be? His own justice would break them. He didn’t earn children. Doesn’t deserve them!”
Meanwhile, Michael stood in the yard, watching the last kennel loaded into the white van. Inside sat a snow-white Alsatian, Granger.
His dark, bead-like eyes stared at the Colonel, bewildered. Waiting—explain. Explain why he couldn’t stay. Why he couldn’t live. And Hardy said nothing.
“Drive on, Tom,” he muttered to the driver, climbing into his car. The van lurched forward, crawling out under the sharp stares of his men. Someone sneered: “Good riddance! Hard end for Hardman. Let him live with that.”
The van reached the vet’s. Drove straight past.
When they turned off the main road, Tom stayed quiet. Only his hands shook. And when the van stopped right outside the Colonel’s house, he finally spat out:
“Sir… what’s this?”
“I followed orders. Wrote them off the books. Where they’re written off—that’s my business.”
The Colonel stepped out. Lydia stood by the gate, silent, a handkerchief crumpled in her hand, heart pounding. He nodded.
“Unload. They’re staying.”
“By conscience, Mick?”
“By conscience, Lydia.”
One by one, the dogs stepped out. Tentative, sniffing the air, learning the ground. Michael pulled his wife close. Thinking: “Not grandkids, sure. But a rowdy lot. We’ll build runs. Warm kennels. Timber’s left from the shed…”
Tom’s voice snapped him back.
“What do I tell the men?”
“Tell them nothing. Let ’em chatter. Folk’ll wag tongues, dogs’ll wag tails. Can’t please everyone. I’m needed here today. Lydia can’t handle this pack alone.”
Tom drove off. But he’d be back by evening. Not for orders. For conscience. For heart.
And he wouldn’t come alone. He’d bring his wife and lads. Fetch Sam from accounts, Alex from maintenance, Olivia and her twin girls. They’d bring pies, fetch water, build the runs. Because you can’t just follow orders—not with living souls. Because Hardman—wasn’t hard. He was just… decent.
And if anyone dared say again the Colonel didn’t earn children? Let them try. They’d rip the words right out of their mouths. Because Hardy had kids. Not by blood. By truth. By kindness. By heart.
And that’s what mattered.
