Three Brown Mice, Part 3: The Rescue

Pain is self-perpetuating: the more you worry about it, the worse it gets. I was sure I’d sustained a life-threatening injury from my attempt to leap across the kitchen floor and onto the kitchen counter. The more I thought about it, the more my leg hurt. It was a sharp pain that seemed to have a life of its own, traveling from the base of my paw right up to my chest. At that very moment, I thought that I would never walk again. No more running through the garden, no more playing Chariot with my sisters, no more leaping across logs in the wood, no more frolicking in the cold water of running streams. My life as a fit, active dog was over, and feeling sorry for myself made my leg hurt even more.

Perhaps it was because I was so concerned about my leg that I didn’t even attempt to move as the three mice came scurrying towards me. And it must have been my fear of even greater pain that resulted in me staying absolutely still, even when the smallest one climbed on top of my head.

It climbed on top of my head!

This, I was sure, was to be my doom, the end of Purple Toffee Tiger Balm, offspring of Dishy Chocolate Toy Boy and Shangri-La Sweet Sue, number 1 in a litter of 6, loving and devoted brother to Frieda and Hilda – the dog otherwise known as Percy. These three rodents had me where they wanted me – as an immobile canine Gulliver in a Lilliputian land of evil rodents, hell-bent on chaos, destruction, and, I was convinced, torture.

How wrong I was.

The smallest creature made its way to my left ear (might right ear was flush against the floor), and crawled beneath it. I thought it was about to burrow deep into my head, but instead began humming a soft tune, quietly and smoothly, as if it were singing a lullaby to a baby. The song was hypnotic, seductive and rather haunting in its simplicity. My master listens to a wide variety of music – most of it strange – but this was like nothing I’d ever heard before. The melody conjured up images that changed along with the tone and pitch: at one point it reminded me of a warm summer’s day, at another a chilly winter’s evening in front of the fire. This mouse used its vocal talent to instil images into my mind: in many ways, I realised, this creature had burrowed itself into my brain.

I was so transfixed by this siren song, I completely forgot about the pain in my leg. It was as if my accident had never happened. Not only was I not aware of any pain, but I wasn’t even aware of my leg. In fact, I wasn’t aware of anything other than images running through my mind as this wordless minstrel dispensed its medicine.

At that point, I was aware of the largest mouse pulling back my lip, exposing my teeth – something the small mammal should have found frightening. In addition, the action was one which should have perplexed me, had I not been hypnotised by the rodent descant. And had I been in full control of my senses, I would have wondered why middle-sized mouse was pushing something across the floor towards me. Indeed, I would have undoubtedly fought against what happened next, when the middle-sized mouse picked up what it had been pushing and shoved it into my mouth, in between my teeth, as the largest mouse then dropped my lip.

It was then that I realised what had happened. It wasn’t poison I was being fed, as I might have feared had fear been present, but a piece of bread, presumably brought from the toaster. The mice were feeding me! And ask any dog what makes an instant friend, and he (or she) will tell you that a hand with food is a hand of kindness (unless of course it’s a crazy old woman in the wood who uses food to entrap you, but that’s another story.)

It dawned on me then and there that, far from being villainous kibble bandits, this trio could only be described as friends – and friends for life.

As I lay there on the floor, soothed by song, the two largest mice continued feeding me stale pieces of bread which they took turns collecting. I’m not entirely sure if I imagined it, but I think they also fed me a piece of cheese. I love cheese. Most dogs do.

The feeding continued until I started to feel more canine again. The mice work tirelessly at providing me with energy, until I felt I could once again stand on my feet. At that point, the singing mouse crawled out from under my ear and jumped off my head to join the other two. I stirred slowly at first, unsure whether the pain would return. But as I pushed myself up off the cold tiled floor, I was amazed to discover that not only was there no pain, but that my leg seemed stronger than before.

These three clever members of the order of Rodentia had somehow managed to heal my injury through a combination of song and days-old toast. They truly were magic!

I stood there in the kitchen looking down at my three new best friends, as they looked up to me, waving, just as they had done earlier on the kitchen counter. I licked each one of them in turn to thank them for their efforts. No words were spoken, but all four of us understood that a special bond had been created between, a bond that wouldn’t be broken, a bond that couldn’t be broken.

We spent the remainder of that evening running around the kitchen. They would scatter and hide in various places (behind my water bowl, beneath the cooker, inside the rubbish bin), while I would try to find them. Usually, as I searched around the kitchen, they would jump out from their hiding spot, just as I was getting warm, frightening me in the process. We would then laugh at my startled reaction and the game would start all over again. I didn’t get much sleep that night, but I didn’t mind, because I was having too much fun.

The next day, when my master was preparing is breakfast, he exclaimed out loud:

“Well, I’ll be…” He was wiping the kitchen counter with a paper towel. “Those little buggers!”

He then reached in between the cooker and the cupboard and pulled out what I recognised as a mouse trap, which made a loud snapping noise, causing him to drop it to the floor, cursing. It had never occurred to be before that such a thing could be dangerous. But then, I had never before made friends with a mouse, much less three of them.

My master picked up the trap and held it in his hands, studying it.

“Strangest thing,” he mumbled. “How on earth did they get the cheese off there without springing the trap?”

I spent the rest of the summer playing hide and seek in the kitchen (and sometimes in the living room too) with my new companions. I realise a rodent-canine friendship isn’t exactly conventional, but I don’t see why convention should dictate what’s right: surely friendship transcends species. Indeed, if I didn’t know any better, I would say that friendship is the very origin of species.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 

Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 

At me, thy poor, earth born companion 

An' fellow mortal!

- To A Mouse, Robert Burns

I'm back!

I must apologise for my very long absence. This summer has been rather eventful, not just for me, but also for my master. Maybe one day he'll write an adventure of his own, as I'm sure he's had a few in the past couple of months!

I do hope I haven't left you in suspense for too long with regards to what happened with the magic mice. I'm just finishing typing up the story (it takes a long time to type, even with my skilled paws), and will post it very soon. That's a promise. I have other adventures to tell you too, not least of which an exciting - albeit rather dangerous - trip to London, where I met, and saved, the lovely Daisy.

First things first: time for a Gravy Bone and a snooze on the sofa. I'll be back again very, very soon!

- Percy

Three Brown Mice, Part 2: The Injury

I was hoping it wouldn’t be long until the mice reappeared from very spot from which they had only recently disappeared. I knew, however, that watching the gap between the sofa and the wall wouldn’t make them appear any faster: a watched kettle never boils, as humans say. So instead, I remained absolutely still in my basket, its warm cotton lining clinging uncomfortably to my short, summer coat on that hot, humid night.

In the stillness of the living room, I listened carefully for the sound of tiny paws running across the floor. I lay there for hours, although it could have been minutes: time bends, stretches and snaps back again on sleepless nights, particularly when you’re expecting something to happen. The only sounds I heard in the house were the clock ticking at the other end of the room and the gentle rhythmic rumbling of my master snoring upstairs. (He had stirred earlier, presumably disturbed by my barking, although he didn’t come downstairs.)

Comforting sounds such as these normally send me to sleep, and that night I came fairly close. My eyes were growing heavier, my breathing deeper, and my brain emptied itself of the day’s worries, only to be filled with a bizarre mixture of unrelated pictures and memories. I wasn’t quite dreaming, but yet not fully awake. Which is why when I saw three small shadows chasing across the floor, my first instinct was to ignore them, for they were probably no more than a mind game. But I hadn’t taken full leave of my senses yet. The watchdog side of me was still in the land of the living.

I had a house to protect! More importantly, I had a food bowl and a water bowl to save from the ravaging, dirty paws of those three tiny vandals!

I leapt to my feet, out of my basket and ran towards the kitchen. There was no point on sneaking up on those three. The best chance I had of protecting the remains of my kibble was to ensure that they were fully aware of my presence. I could see them just ahead of me now, entering the kitchen and turning the corner, ducking momentarily out of sight. My paws slid on the kitchen tiles, as I took the corner too quickly, nearly losing my balance.

My initial thought was to head towards my feeding corner, but the three bandits had other plans. I watched in amazement as they climbed up the side of the cabinet and onto the kitchen counter. They actually climbed up the cabinet! It was as if their grubby little paws were magnetic; and they moved upwards so quickly, it was as if they were flying! These were truly magical mice – but they were mice nevertheless. I couldn’t let the fact that they knew magic to distract me from teaching them a lesson. The problem at that point, however, was that I could no longer see them. They were atop the kitchen counter, which put me at a disadvantage.

There’s a stool in the kitchen that my master uses to reach above the refrigerator or the top shelf in the cupboard. It isn’t tall, but it would give me just enough height to see atop the kitchen counter. I jumped onto the stool, cautiously, so as not to fall off the other side. It was just the boost I needed, for I was able to see the little creatures clearly. If what they were doing in my feeding bowl infuriated me, what they were doing to the toaster would incense my master.

All three of the mice were standing at the base of the toaster. At first I thought they were admiring themselves in the chrome reflection, but it soon became apparent that they were sniffing the air, presumably assessing what food lay inside the machine. Then, without any effort at all, the smallest mouse jumped on top of the toaster and dived into one of the two slots. The other two remained at the base, one at the front, the other on the side. I wondered what was going on, but didn’t have to wait long to find out.

Within seconds, a small piece of old bread came hurtling out from the toast slot. It flew over the side of the toaster and was caught by largest mouse, who started devouring it. Only moments later, another piece flew out of the toaster, this time caught by the middle-sized mouse, who took also began eating straight away. This continued for several minutes – a shower of old bread bits raining down onto the counter, some caught, some left on the counter. Eventually, the smallest mouse emerged from the toaster and jumped down to join the others in a feeding frenzy. Although the counter was littered with crumbs and bits of crust, the three brown mice hoovered it up so quickly that in no time, the counter was spotless once again.

I knew I had to do something, but what? I couldn’t climb atop the counter, since I was neither tall enough nor magical like the mice. I couldn’t leap from the stool, as the gap was too large. But if I didn’t take action, the three breaded amigos would surely move on to the cereal box sitting next to the toaster – my master’s cereal, which, although a bit like bird seed and not in any way tasty, he eats every morning. What would he have for his breakfast should he find his box of cereal empty?

I let go a sharp, yet determined bark. Just the one: they were to know of my presence without me awaking my master. What happened next astounded me.

All three mice stopped eating and looked up at me. They stared at me for several seconds, as I contemplated letting loose with another bark. They then put down their respective pieces of stale toasted bread and, in unison, as if rehearsed, waved hello to me with their two front legs (which in fact they used more like arms). They spent several seconds waving at me. These creatures were mocking me. They knew full well I couldn’t reach them and didn’t care about my presence at all. I was no threat to them. Upon the counter, they were free to feed to their hearts’ content. That wasn’t right, but there’s was nothing I could do. Sure, I could wake my master, but chances are they would disappear again, leaving my master angry with me for disturbing his slumber.

There was only one thing to do. I had to make a flying leap from my stool across the room towards the counter. I don’t have wings. Dogs generally don’t (at least as far as I’m aware). But I am a rather accomplished jumper, having made it atop the desk in my master’s study several times, not to mention jumping over numerous logs in various fields and woods. There wasn’t enough room for me to make a running leap, so I had to use the full force of my hind legs to springboard me across the kitchen.

I steadied myself on the stool, which shook slightly beneath me. (The mice had returned to their crumb feast, so were unaware of my manoeuvrings.) I concentrated hard, focusing all my energy to my back legs. If I pulled this off, I thought, I could enter myself in Britain’s Got Talent.

Suddenly the gap between the stool and the counter looked larger than ever – a giant chasm of terracotta tiles. But I couldn’t back down. It was now or never.

With all the strength I could muster, I pushed off from the stool, which toppled over behind me. My front legs were stretched out in front me, as I flew through the air across the kitchen. I was doing it! I was really flying! I was going to succeed in my plan, land on the counter and teach those mice a lesson they would never forget.

But something went wrong. The countertop fell from view as I felt myself falling through the air. I hit the hard floor with a thump, and a sharp pain travelled up from my right front paw to my leg joint. I can take pain, and rarely feel sorry for myself like humans often do, but I could tell this was a serious injury. I cried out in a pathetic whimper as I rolled over to my side.

I lay perfectly still on the floor. The pain was so great, that I feared I’d broken my leg. I continued whimpering quietly, as I didn’t have the strength to make enough noise to wake my master.

I’m unsure how long I remained there on the floor. It felt like an eternity, yet it was probably only minutes. It would be dawn soon enough, and my master would walk in to find me there. However, it was the mice who found me first.

With my head against the tiles, I had a perfect view of the expanse of kitchen floor – a sea of red tiles, across which was marching the three tiny thieving mice, heading directly for me. Were they planning on taking advantage of my paralytic state? Were they going to torture me in some bizarre, twisted rodent fashion? Would they somehow make me disappear into the floor in the same way they disappeared into the wall earlier? Would I go down in doglore as the poodle who was destroyed by three mice?

I cannot explain how surprised I was by what happened next…

Three Brown Mice, Part 1

The fact that the mice in my house are intelligent is beyond dispute: they have avoided certain death via entrapment and poison with an amazing ability. The fact that they are greedy is perfectly evident from the way in which they break into my master’s breakfast cereal, leaving a mess on the kitchen cupboard. The idea that they are clean is laughable, since, unlike dogs, they do not seem to mind soiling indoors (and in fact seem unable to control themselves in this particular aspect).

These observations and not new, but the realisation that the mice in Winter Whispers are magic is a conclusion I reached only recently. You may not believe me – and in fact, my feline friend Ruby does not – but I shall tell you how I made this fascinating discovery and how I have also made an entire family of new friends.

Firstly, however, let me clear something up. Mice cannot speak or type or communicate in the same way as most intelligent creatures. When I say that the mice in Winter Whispers are intelligent, I am referring not to any strong cerebral abilities, but rather a survival instinct that surpasses even the most agile canine. When I say that they are magic, I am referring to abilities beyond the scope of most any creature, living or imaginary.

I often have trouble sleeping on hot summer evenings, and find myself lying in my basket, staring at the ceiling or at various objects in the room, waiting for the sand-dog to take me away. During a recent heat wave, I had several such sleepless nights, as the clammy air left me far too uncomfortable to drift off. On one such evening, I was there in my basket, on my back, my head hanging out, allowing me to view the rest of the living room upside down. This view point may be unfamiliar to most humans – and perhaps even a bit unpleasant – but it’s one with which I’m familiar.

What I wasn’t familiar with, though, was the tiny dark shadow that shot across the floor, from the far side of the room and into the kitchen. In an old house like Winter Whispers, you often see strange shadows at night (strange spectres sometimes too!), normally caused by the moonlight playing tricks through the window. Sometimes, however, the source of a shadow is living: a spider, a mouse and once (and only once) a deranged squirrel. The shadow I saw that night was unmistakeably a mouse beetling its way to the kitchen for a midnight feast.

Normally I ignore mice, if I even see them at all, or at most just bark once or twice. However, since I couldn’t sleep, and had nothing better to do (dogs don’t count sheep, since that would keep us awake even longer), I decided to follow the wee beastie into what is, without a doubt, the most sacred room of this house – indeed of any house.

I flipped over onto my belly, jumped up onto my feet, and just before I could leave my basket, I saw yet another shadow scurry across the flagstone floor, as if trying to catch up with its mate, this one slightly smaller than the first. To see one mouse in this house isn’t unusual, but to see two, particularly one running after another, is certainly not a common site. You’ll understand then why what I saw next took me completely by surprise: a third mouse, this one even smaller than the first two, running in almost stop-start motion in the same direction as its comrades.

Something was up. Was there a mouse party in the kitchen? Was this trio of mice on an expedition seeking out culinary treasure to bring back to the rest of their mouse village? Would there be more mice to come? Was this a family of mice, three brothers, three sisters, or a combination of siblings, or just three friends? Or perhaps they were complete strangers. Whatever the answer, one thing was for sure: it was my duty to follow them to ensure that they didn’t eat the master and me out of house and home.

Due to their speed, the mice were out of sight before I had my last leg out of the basket. I knew I had little time to waste. There is no elegant way of chasing anything on this flooring, as it’s often slippery under paw, so I bounded towards the kitchen, hoping to catch this rodent trio in the act of pilferage or perhaps even sabotage (I once heard my master say something about the mice chewing through wires).

As I entered the kitchen, I detected neither movement nor sound. Of course it was possible that the clip-clop of my slightly overgrown nails on the stone flooring had alerted the creatures, sending them back to their home, wherever that may be. But if that were the case, surely they would have had to run back towards the living room, and I would have seen them. Despite the still silence, I decided to check out the kitchen anyway.

I nosed around the floor, trying to detect their scent, but found nothing other than the usual odours of this great room: chicken fat, bacon fat, beef fat, pork fat, chip fat, and something I simply call ‘fat fat’, as I’m unsure what it really is. There was also the faint odour of my dinner earlier that evening – tuna-flavoured kibble. It left me trying to remember, however, whether or not I’d finished my evening meal. If I hadn’t, it would provide excellent fodder for the long-tailed trio who had to be hiding somewhere in the kitchen.

As I peered around the side of the cupboard, where my food and drinking bowls are kept, the question as to whether or not I'd finished my dinner was answered. So too was the mystery of where the mice were. There, inside my food bowl, which was about a quarter full, were the two larger mice. Both were sitting directly on top of the remains of my evening meal, their backs to each other, each holding a kernel of kibble in their tiny hands, as they nibbled away at my dinner. My dinner!!! I am a very generous dog, and am more than happy to share a Gravy Bone with friends, or a meal with my sisters, but I wasn’t happy about my tuna delight being taken without my permission. These scheming, cunning little beasties clearly had no respect for private property. What would I eat if I were to get hungry later in the night, or first thing in the morning?

I was trying to figure out the best way to entrap these thieves, although what I would do with them once caught I didn’t really know. I thought of barking to chase them away instead, but they would probably simply return at some point. It was pointless even to contemplate keeping guard in the kitchen: eventually I would have to sleep, allowing them to come back for the remainder of my kibble. I could chase them away and then eat the remainder of the bowl, but I wasn’t really hungry at that moment.

The mice had to be dealt with strictly, sternly, and, I’m sorry to say, without compassion. What they were doing was an outrage and surely illegal! However, as angry as I was at that point, my fury grew tenfold when I spied the water bowl just behind my food. I wanted to rub my eyes with my paw to ensure that I wasn’t imagining things, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of what was happening.

There, inside my water bowl, was the smallest mouse, the last one to have scurried across the living room floor earlier. If it were merely drinking the water, I wouldn’t have minded as such, since there is always a fresh supply in the toilet. What it was doing, however, broke all boundaries of good taste and decency.

Inside my bowl – my beautiful stainless steel drinking bowl, which my master lovingly tops up with fresh water several times a day, and from which I lap the only liquid I am allowed – the smallest of the trio was swimming around in circles, seemingly having the time of its little life! It was mouse-paddling counter-clockwise around the rim, splashing and ducking its tiny head beneath the water once and while. It was using my bowl as a paddling pool!

To have two mice raiding your sustenance is infuriating. To have a third treating your Adam’s ale as a public lido is deplorable! I knew then that I had to do something about it, and that something didn’t involve politeness.

From the pit of my stomach, I built up a growl that would translate into any creature’s language as precursor to a battle cry. This poodle was going to war! However, before any alarum even escaped my throat, the three mice suddenly took notice of my presence, and, all at once, leapt onto the floor and headed in my direction. They were charging directly at me! This trio of brown furry bandits thought they could defeat the might of the bravest, sturdiest miniature poodle in all of Suffolk.

Unfortunately, they were right. As they charged directly at my paws, I leapt up in the air, providing them ample space beneath me in which to make their escape. When I landed back on the ground, I spun around quickly to see the last one, the smallest one, exiting the kitchen, leaving a wet trail in its wake.

Without a moment to waste, I rushed into the living room, now barking, chasing the scoundrels across the floor. All three were in my sight, although the largest, the one at the front, was too far ahead to catch. With a little luck, and a lot more speed, it was just possible that I might be able to snatch the wet one at the back. One would be enough for tonight, I thought: it would satisfy my desire for revenge and teach the other two a lesson. But even the littlest guy was too fast for me.

One by one, they shot into the narrow gap between the sofa and the wall. It wasn’t a large enough space for my entire body, but I figured that sticking my head through and barking wildly would frighten them enough to make them think twice about ever raiding my larder again. But while what happened in the kitchen infuriated me, what I saw in the tiny gap next to the sofa amazed me.

All three mice were standing there, looking at me, mocking me, knowing full well that I wouldn’t be able to catch them, that they were safe in their foxhole. That alone wasn’t unusual or necessarily unexpected. It was what I saw next that left me literally speechless.

This band of little brown brothers turned to the side and literally disappeared into the wall, one by one, the largest one first, the smallest last. There was no hole that I could see, no gap in the corner, no space between the floorboards. It was as if they simply vanished into mid-air. They were there one second, gone the next. I have seen a lot of strange things in my short life, but never anything that perplexed me as much as this. I just couldn’t fathom how three rodents could simply disappear into a solid surface. To disappear, I realised, is magic: clearly, these were no ordinary mice.

I began to wonder if I’d seen them at all. Perhaps I was still dreaming, or maybe my digestion was causing my mind to play tricks. But a quick look back across the long expanse of floor confirmed that it hadn't been my imagination after all. A long trail of water led in a straight line across the living room floor, from the kitchen to directly where I was standing – the trail made by the wet one. The mice had been – and probably still were – real.

Within seconds, I could hear the unmistakeable sound of my master moving around upstairs. No doubt he would be on his way down to see what all the fuss was about. At first I thought I should remain standing there in the corner of the room, barking at the gap next to the sofa, assuming he would take interest. But I didn't think he would have paid me much attention, and would have probably ordered me back to my basket. My master really doesn’t like being woken up in the middle of the night.

So, wanting to show that I was truly a good boy, I took myself quickly back to my soft-sided bed, snuggled down into its clammy padding, closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. This way, my master would just think that my barking earlier was nothing more than a dream. Not wanting to wake me, he would simply return upstairs and leave me in peace to solve the mystery of the disappearing mice.

It wasn’t long, however, before they re-appeared. And what happened next changed my view of these magical creatures forever.

A Sad Day

This is not easy to write, and will be very short.

Sometimes you meet someone who influences your life and changes the way you think forever.

From the moment I met my French friend Greeb, he took me under his wing. He protected me, kept me free from danger and treated me as if we’d known each other for years. Without Greeb, I would surely have met my doom with the sanglier.

This morning, my master had a phone call. On Wednesday, Greeb was hit by a van and killed instantly.

I have never known what it felt like to lose someone you care for. Now I know. It hurts. Deeply.

The chateau will not be the same without him. I am sure that Black Cat, White Cat and even that blasted cockerel will all be missing him now. Cosette will be heart-broken. Perhaps she doesn’t even know that Greeb is gone and will wonder why he hasn’t been to visit in so long.

Bear and Kitty have lost a loyal friend and companion. We all have.

Sleep on, my friend. And sleep well.

An Adventurous Dream, Part 2

I am standing on the road that leads down to the village. In front of me is Teagan, her beaming teeth brightening the black tarmac ahead. To my right is Lou, panting heavily. I do hope he doesn’t hyperventilate. He has travelled far for this walk: from the sound of his breathing, I suspect he ran the entire way. Just to my left is Sadie, who is rather striking; and beside her is Buddy, who appears to be distracted by new smells. They too have travelled a long way, but neither is panting as heavily as Lou.

We move down the road, this canine gang up for a bit of fun and mischief. Woe to any feline or nocturnal animal that gets in our way!

I point out Lilacs Cottage to our right. Eileen will be inside, alone, sleeping. Her dog, Max, has gone away.

“Oh yeah,” says Lou. “Poor Eileen.”

There is a gap in the hedge to the left. This is where we are headed – into the cornfield. One by one we squeeze through the bramble. Lou has some difficulty. Sadie, Buddy and I push him from behind until he is through.

Now we are standing in a field of corn. I am directing my fellow adventurers along the edge of the field, in order to make our way to the far side, towards Crankie’s Gate and Love Lane.

Suddenly it goes dark: Teagan’s smile has disappeared, leaving us in total blackness. My eyes won’t adjust. I cannot see my friends. Am I alone? Are they with me?

Just then a noise: a chewing sound directly in front of me: grinding and slurping as if a rask bone is being demolished.

“Mmmm… this sweetcorn is delicious!”

It is Teagan. She has stopped for a snack. Her mastication has killed our only light source. We must get over to Crankie’s Gate and into Love Lane in order to climb Broom Hill. I want to show my friends the view.

“Whoa! What was that sound?” Lou asks. “It sounded like something large in the corn field.” When he speaks, his teeth sparkle. He is a handsome dog for a mongrel.

I tell him I didn’t hear a sound, and ask him to smile in order to provide light for us. He obliges so that we can move forward. This time Lou is in front. I am just behind. Teagan is next to me, busy eating. Sadie is behind, and Buddy –

Where is Buddy? I call out in a muted shout so as not to draw attention to us.

No reply.

The others are not bothered by the sudden disappearance of our young friend. I suspect it is because they are more concerned with our adventure. I wonder if perhaps Buddy is the type of dog who usually goes on walkabout. Are pugs that independent? I decide that if he managed to find Winter Whispers all the way from America, then he will find us again in this cornfield.

We are now at the far end of the field, where there is another gap in the hedge. On the other side is a gravel drive just outside Mr Crankie’s cottage, Crankie’s Gate. I instruct the pack to pass through the gap quietly: we do not want to wake Mr Crankie. He has a shotgun. It is broken, but it is a shotgun nonetheless.

“Hey,” says Teagan, who has bits of sweetcorn around her muzzle, “let’s go up and ring his bell and then run!”

The others think this sounds like fun. I am far too polite to partake in such immature activity… although I must admit that it would be highly amusing. I suggest that Teagan do it, since it was her suggestion. I am amused at how naughty cocker spaniels can be.

“C’mon, Lou,” she says, “you can help.”

Sadie and I watch as Teagan climbs onto Lou’s back. With her right front paw, she presses the bell on Crankie’s Gate. From inside I hear the ominous bong-bong of the bell. It reverberates through the walls and has the potential to wake the entire village. Teagan presses it again, giggling. This time the bong-bong is louder and more menacing than before: it is, I fear, warning us of trouble to come.

An upstairs light is switched on.

I urge Teagan and Lou to cease their childish prank and run with me up Love Lane. But they are having too much fun.

Now a downstairs light is on.

I am now pleading for my friends to run away from the door. It is only when the door is unlatched that they decide to make a run for it.

The pranksters are now running away from the house, just as Mr Crankie steps through the door with his shotgun. He is shouting into the night, warning off any intruders. Behind him is Mrs Crankie, a meat cleaver in her hands.

I warn the group to run, to run as fast as they can. Mrs Crankie makes pies out of dogs!

“I don’t wanna be a pie!” Sadie cries. I want to comfort her, but it is more important to continue running.

“Did someone say pie?” asks a breathless voice. It is Buddy. He has found us. We are now a full pack once more.

I instruct the group up Love Lane. Lou asks why it is named such. I reply that I do not know, but has something to do with humans and love. Humans perplex me sometimes.

The lane is very narrow in parts, forcing us to walk in single file. Teagan’s smile is beaming again. Together with Lou, our ascent in the forest and up to Broom Hill is well lit. There are questions from Sadie about where we are going. I explain that Broom Hill is the highest point in the area. The view, I promise, will be spectacular.

Large trees loom overhead, obscuring the night sky, their roots bulging up from the ground, as if trying to trip us. The air gets progressively cooler the higher we go. I can now see my breath. This is July: it should not be so cold.

We leave the shelter of the wood and are now standing atop Broom Hill. A full moon appears above us, drenching us in a blue rinse, illuminating our view. Before us stretches the valley: a road, a stream, several houses (all dark), and fields where, during the day, cattle low and sheep graze. The view impresses my friends.

“What a beautiful view!” they all say simultaneously: a canine chorus of approval.

Beneath the starry sky, we sit and look out across this Suffolk scenery. I am lucky to live in such a beautiful part of the world. I am even luckier to have such good friends – friends who have travelled many, many miles to be with me tonight. All is right with this bizarre world. I am at peace, happy and content.

This feeling, however, changes the instant I see it – down at the bottom of the hill, in the field, lurking towards us. Although I have never actually seen it before, I recognise it immediately.

It is Old Shuck, the phantom dog of Suffolk.

I am not the only one who sees the spectre. Sadie lets out a frightened yelp. Buddy runs behind Lou, who is covering his eyes with his paw, so as not to see the monstrosity slowly approaching. Teagan is bearing her teeth, which she must not do, for they act as a beacon for the devil hound.

We must run! I instruct the pack to return to Love Lane. One bite from Old Shuck will turn any dog into a phantom.

“I don’t wanna be a phantom!” Sadie cries. Again, I want to comfort her, but first we need to escape.

“Me neither,” says Buddy, before adding: “Hey, where are those pies?”

Something is wrong: I cannot run. My feet are moving, but my body is not. I look around me to discover with horror that the others are having the same problem.

“Why can’t I move?”

“What will we do?”

“I can hear him coming.”

“Good-bye, my friends. See you in the phantom world!”

This cannot be the end. I refuse to accept it. There must be a way to escape. I close my eyes and with all the power I can muster, I call upon the spiritual guardian of Broom Hill, the Beatnik Buddhess. I ask for help. I beg for assistance. I promise to sacrifice ten Gravy Bones and three pig’s ears in her honour should she save us.

My plan works: my feet are once again moving my body. The others too are free from their hitherto frozen positions.

However, there is not enough time for a clear escape now. I look behind me to see Old Shuck ever closer. He lurks slowly, yet somehow moves quickly.

I scream to the others to run into the relative safety of the forest. I fear that we will never make it back to Winter Whispers and that Old Shuck will catch up with us. We need a plan.

I am not the only one who thinks so.

“We need a plan to trap the phantom dog,” says Sadie. “Idea! Let’s dig a hole!”

She is very bright, which is unsurprising: she is a miniature poodle, like myself.

I suggest that Lou and Teagan start digging, while Buddy and Sadie hide behind an oak tree. My role is to oversee the digging.

Lou and Teagan start in earnest. The ground is hard. A deep hole will be difficult. We need help. As if reading my mind, Sadie emerges from behind the giant oak. She has another idea. Gosh, she is a clever dog.

“Let me call Lily. She can be here in a flash to help.”

Sadie then closes her eyes and howls up into the forest canopy above. I cannot understand how this will help, but I trust that she knows what she is doing.

Within seconds, a glowing mist floats down from above, swirling and changing shape as it approaches. It lands on the grounds right next to the small hole, and in a blink turns into a sturdily built brown dog.

This, I assume, is Lily. She wastes no time and starts digging, with Teagan’s support, as Lou is now hiding behind the oak.

Sadie smiles at me and says: “Boxers are excellent diggers.”

Within seconds, the hole is almost deep enough to trap Old Shuck. It should be deeper, but there is no time. We can hear something coming down the path from Broom Hill. We all take shelter with Lou and Buddy.

Peaking out around from around the tree, I expect to see the phantom dog bearing his savage teeth. I am relieved – and surprised – however, to see four small Yorkshire terriers bounding towards the hole. It is Zeus, Zena, Isis and Raphael. I have no idea where they came from, but I cannot let them fall into phantom trap.

I shout at them to join us behind the tree, and without hesitation, they oblige.

This is a big tree, but not enough to hide ten dogs! I am worried that Old Shuck will see us. Some of us will survive – the stronger, faster dogs – but others will perish. I cannot let this happen.

I arrange the ever-growing pack so that they are well hidden from view. The four smallest dogs cower beneath Lily. Teagan is once again on Lou’s back. Buddy is camouflaging himself with dead leaves and twigs. Sadie and I are tucked safely on the far side of tree. I have a clear view of the path.

It feels like an hour passes. I am cold. I suspect the others are too. Someone’s teeth are chattering. I suspect it is Lou: he is a lovely dog, but frightens easily.

Then I see it – the monstrosity that has plagued my nightmares since I was a wee pup. It creeps up the path, sniffing the ground. I try to remember if I left my scent anywhere nearby. I think I did. This means certain doom for at least one of us. But which one? Old Shuck would most likely start with the smallest dogs first, before moving on to the larger breeds. Should I stay and fight and risk my life? Or should I run away, back to the safety of my home and to the protection of my master?

Thankfully, this is a decision I do not have to make.

At the far end of the path appears a bright light. It grows in size until the entire forest is lit up as if it is daylight. It is the Beatnik Buddhess, here to rescue us from the canine creature of the night. She is beautiful: basked in white light, she floats along the forest floor, her green gown trailing behind her. Her hair houses flowers, butterflies, birds, and countless other forest creatures.

When she speaks in her hypnotic voice, it is as if she is singing:

“A wet, twitching nose
Reads a tantalizing message
Written in the grass”

I have no idea what it means, but do not care, because it is frightening Old Shuck. He shields his deadly red eyes, and quivers in fear. He is afraid! The phantom dog of Suffolk, the spectre of the forest, the canine freak of nature is actually afraid! And he is afraid of the light!

Old Shuck disappears into the ground, swallowed up by the hole dug by Teagan, Lou and (mainly) Lily. The ten of us run out from our hiding place, yelping, yipping and barking with howls of delight. We celebrate by leaving our mark on as many trees as possible.

I run up to the Beatnik Buddhess and thank her for her help. She reminds me of my promise to sacrifice nibbles and bits. I vow to fulfil my promise as soon as I return to Winter Whispers.

She smiles gently down at me, pats me on the head and floats into the sky. The ten of us watch, mesmerised, as she ascends into the heavens, taking a seat on the moon.

We are silent for a long time.

Lou is the first to speak: “Wow. That was cool!” He then turns to me and says: “Hey, buddy, how about some food?”

“Yeah, where are those pies?” asks Buddy.

I tell them I have some chicken back at the house and invite them all over. My master is asleep, so I tell them they will have to keep quiet. They agree.

In mere seconds, we find ourselves back at my house. The gate stands wide open. So too does the front door, inviting us in. We enter, excitedly, our stomachs rumbling. Nothing like an adventure to build up an appetite.

We enter the kitchen and are overwhelmed by the scene before us. On the floor sits a cornucopia of canine delights: ten bowls of roast chicken and gravy, a mound of rawhide chews, a large bowl of Gravy Bones and a pile of pig’s ears. The kitchen is a bacchanalia of earthly delicacies, mysteriously left for our appreciative enjoyment.

Nobody questions where the food came from. Nobody cares. We are all hungry.

Before I start eating, however, I remember my promise to the Beatnik Buddhess and separate out ten Gravy Bones and three pig’s ears. I take them, one by one, through my dog flap and leave them out in the garden. I look up at the sky, where the moon sits as a nocturnal sentinel. The spiritual guardian of Broom Hill sits there too, nodding her head in approval and smiling at me. I have done well.

I return to the kitchen to find it empty: no food, no friends. But for some reason, I do not question their disappearance, in the same way I did not question their sudden appearance earlier in the night.

They were here, and now they are gone: back to their homes in other parts of the world: back to their baskets, comforted by their blankets and toys: back to their masters who will never suspect that tonight, we have had the adventure of our lives.

An Adventurous Dream, Part 1

I am standing at the front gate in the middle of the night. July’s darkness has never been as complete as this: there is no moon, no stars, no lingering rays of sunlight. A black curtain has been pulled across the sky.

The air is too cool for summer, and very still. There are no night time sounds at all: no cars on the road, no owls hooting, no felines caterwauling, no foxes screeching, and because of the still air, no leaves rustling. Someone has turned down the volume on the night.

I do not know why I am standing here. Am I waiting for a walk? I am not wearing my lead and my master is nowhere to be seen. There are no lights on in Winter Whispers: he must be asleep. Am I waiting for someone else? How did I get out here? Have I been here all night or did I just arrive? My memory is fuzzy.

A noise breaks the silence. It comes from the far side of the garden. I do not bark, but growl softly, a gentle warning of my presence. The noise gets louder: the source is approaching. The shadows have come to life and are now heading towards me. I back away, but hit the hedge. There is nowhere for me to run. There is nowhere to hide. I am trapped. I cannot move. The shadows are getting closer, moving to envelope me, to carry me away into the blackness. I can no longer growl. I am frozen in fear.

The shadow takes shape. It speaks my name.

Relief thaws my body as I recognise who is standing before me. It is Teagan. Her grin lights up the night. She is wagging her tail.

I ask her what she is doing here.

“Do you not remember,” says to me in a heavy West Country accent, “that we agreed to meet tonight for a midnight walk? I have travelled miles to see you.”

I do remember now. But there were supposed to be others. I ask her where they are.

“We are right here,” an American voice says. “We’ve travelled even further to be there tonight.”

It is Lou. Next to him are Sadie and Buddy. I cannot imagine how they got here, but it does not matter. We all greet each other in a manner known to canines.

The four of us are standing there in the night, ready for an adventure. The gate swings open, inviting us to start our journey. I stand back to let Teagan go first: her smile will light the way.

This will be fun, I can tell. But I also sense danger.