Night Terrors

It started off as a normal last walk before bedtime. 'Walk' is a bit of a misnomer, glamorising the quick peeing on the verge and, usually, the rest. But last night he didn't perform, and given the erratic nature of his, um, performances over the past few days, I decided to take him a bit farther. There was a full moon or nearly, but though it was quite light there was cloud and the mist lingered, obscuring my vision a bit. All went well until we passed an entrance to a field we rarely go into though there's a footpath right through it. One minute he was beside me, padding along in his bright blue protective wellies, and the next he was gone. I called, I whistled, and I shone my little torch to no avail. After half an hour during which time, mercifully, no cars appeared, I decided I had to run home and get my big flashlight, and the car. There's been a lot of heart pounding since I got Hugo, but never as much as now. Should I risk a car coming by in the minutes it would take me to return? I decided I had to, and off I went like the wind. As I reached the house a car came towards me, fast, and I stepped out into the lane waving my torch and my arms frantically. It slowed momentarily as it came alongside me and then accelerated away. I stared after it in disbelief, waiting for the screech of brakes and the crunch I knew would follow. Silence. Back at the vanishing spot with the car, I shone the powerful light across the field, calling and whistling all the time, but the mist prevented the beam from penetrating very far. I felt powerless. Where on earth was he, with his injured legs? I drove along the lane, so carefully, and down towards Boundary Farm and all the way to the Fram Sax road. He could easily have chased a hare this distance. I came back, stopping and scanning, calling, calling, then back to the house praying that a smll black person would be sitting by the door. No. Back again to the field, aware that it was now past midnight and he'd been gone for over an hour. I shone the flashlight across the field again, whistling, and suddenly I saw two pricks of light heading towards me and he was back. His wellies had gone, one dressing was completely missing, and the other was covered in mud. He was panting fit to burst, and as I opened the car door he leapt in, shaking and heaving. I sent up a prayer of gratitude.

Back indoors he drank his fill then got up on the sofa so I could examine him. He was dirty and wet, his exposed sore pad muddy. When I removed the other dressing it was soaked through and muddy too. Luckily I had the spare set the vet had given me so I set to and cleaned, dried and redressed. It must have stung, but he lay quietly on his side half dozing, every now and then gazing at me with what my addled brain could only interpret as pure love. It's reciprocated Hugo. He slept upstairs again of course, and there he will stay until the last of the Christmas guests has departed. The mud has dried on his undercarriage and I've brushed it off as well as I can. There will be no bath until his pads have healed, and then I won't be administering it. But dirty or clean, he's safe and he's home. Best Christmas present evah.

Non-matching legs