Hardy speaks in the way men who’ve fought to stay quiet tend to. Short bursts. Honest. No appetite for exaggeration. The way he talks about Blue is the way some people talk about their oldest friends.
"There was a point where it was him and me. That’s it. Didn’t need saving. Just needed someone to walk. So we did."
This is not a celebrity profile, not really. Hardy doesn’t want to talk about his latest film. He doesn’t bring a publicist. He wears a beanie, a jacket that’s seen better days, and boots with more miles than polish.
He picks up Blue and checks his paws. There’s a sharp edge to the way he moves - precise, not gentle, but full of care. Blue licks his chin and jumps back down.
We talk about Penne & Co., not as a brand, but as a piece of gear. Hardy doesn’t care about logos. He cares about function. The magnetic buckles that click in without a fuss. The fabric that doesn’t rub or trap heat. The small touches, like where to clip the lead or stash a tag.
"Someone who’s actually walked a dog in the rain designed this. That’s the only explanation."
He calls himself a guardian. Not a dog owner. Not a master. Just someone trying to keep another life safe. He doesn’t say this in a dramatic way. It’s just how he sees it.
