Hounds and Home

The small wire haired Jack Russell was sat on the porch floor with what I think was a Spaniel and one other dog which I could not identify.

He was obviously the king of the house and was used to bossing the others to do what he wanted.

On this particular day, Easter Monday Bank Holiday, he was sunning himself enjoying the enhanced warmth of an otherwise breezy early afternoon as the elevation of the porch was sheltered from the prevailing wind. The other two hounds sat on either side like guardians or acolytes sensitive to any movement of their leader which might spark a bark, a quick dash about the garden or a snap at the erratic intrusion of a butterfly or bee.

In terms of ambition the three together were pretty content with their lot. The house was well down a cinder track away from any busy main roads, being a modern replacement for an old and tumbled down cottage that had previously stood on the site for a couple of centuries. The only regular sounds were from distant trains heading to and from the coastal resorts and the nearest regional town, tractors in and between fields and a flypast by the bright yellow Sea King Air Sea Rescue helicopter which was stationed nearby on what remained as a former airfield.

The track went nowhere farther than the house, petering out into a rutted grass track beyond and then in faint outline only through the thick and matted grass of a land drainage ditch. The occupants of the house were rarely in during daylight hours and on this particular day had taken an opportunity to just go out and do something.

The dogs were trusted to hang about the house and gardens unrestrained because there was nowhere else to go, no temptations to draw them away and no hazardous influences because of the tranquil rural location.

They were well provided for with replenished water bowls, gelatinous chews and a rather macabre accumulation of pigs ears and trotters that had gradually worked their way from the porch out into the house grounds after brief flirtations of interest and then abandonment.

In their own minds they had been left as protectors of the family possessions and would fulfill their duty as best as they could even though challenged in  terms of size and ground speed.

It had been a quiet spell for the three dogs in the moments before their ears pricked up at the first sound of the distinctive scrunch of wide mountain bike tyres on loose gravel. I had been working my way along the course of a land drain on two wheels sticking to a signposted bridleway some 200 metres north of the last metalled road. It had been hard going after the smooth surfaces of proper carriageways and a low gear had been a compromise and forward progress was laborious. The cool breeze was very welcome but I soon hoped to make a turn to the west and get the full benefit of a tail wind for much of the rest of my planned cycle.

I saw the farmhouse and welcome cinder track which had to be passed by quite close and noticed the neatly laid out private gardens and the agricultural buildings nestled behind.

All was still and calm.

Then something emerged from a shallow porch structure and appeared to rocket across the well tended grass on a well calculated tangent to meet my route square on to the house.

Whatever it was I could not at first discern.

Three heads, 12 legs and the strangest shape made up of different entities was hurtling at breakneck speed at less than 10 inches above the ground. In an instant the apparition distorted as its two outer parts branched off, slowed and stopped leaving a wiry chubby nucleus on that collision course with me.

I could now make out an angry and aggressive terrier and prepared to take evasive action. Kicking down on the pedals I managed to inject a couple more miles per hour into my forward motion and that was enough to propel me just beyond the bared teeth of that ferocious animal. It was only just beyond as I am convinced that I could feel hot dog breath on my bare shin and a wave of air from a swiftly closing jaw.

It was not a time to dwell on the narrowest of escapes and I put my head down and spun my legs as fast as I could whilst clunking through the available gears.

From the point of view of the dog it had been a commendable effort. The unwritten brief to defend the homestead had been adhered to and the malfeasant was now tearing away in a cloud of fine dust particles. The top dog, now out of sight, no doubt returned to a hero's reception from his sidekicks. His would be an afternoon of lazy luxury, the tale of bravery endlessly retold amongst a scattering of tasty dried but succulent animal appendages.