We opened the small gate in the garden wall and stepped straight into the large meadow behind the converted farmhouse. In front of us, cow-cropped grass, scattered with wild flowers and the occasional scumbled heap of brambles, sloped gently down to a shallow stream. The field stopped short of the watercourse by four paces or so; its boundary marked by three strands of rusting barbed-wire, strung between rounded posts. The exact location disguised by stands of tall nettles, the remains of a hawthorn hedge and more of the rambling blackberries. Beyond the stream the grass-land rose towards the sandy warrens of a low hillock crowned with gorse and silver-birch. The day was ripe for a walk, the sky bright and sunlit, its blue deepened by what looked like a scattered flock of high-flying sheep. We had plenty of time for the half-mile stroll to the pub, a couple of pints and a leisurely return before Sunday lunch; anyway the dog, Ned, my host’s boisterous black'n'white collie, needed the exercise. Seaside Man - Shep
The womenfolk had, as usual, refused the offer of a meal at the pub, they had things to cook up, the lunch, some fresh angles on the other villagers' reputations and a few fruit pies for the vicar, I suppose it must have been the weekend before Harvest Festival or some such event. We men were in the way, as usual, and so, as usual, it was just Jack, Ned and I, who took the footpath angling down-slope between the tussocks. We were heading for the stile in the far corner that led to the board bridge over the stream. Ned, also as usual, was roaming the entire field, for him the journey would measure more like ten miles. We men chatted about the usual things, cars, beer, work, the weather and our womenfolk. The dog kept us informed of the state of the meadow, or would have done had we understood what he was barking about. As compensation for our lack of appreciation of his conversation, we occasionally threw a stick for him, which he retrieved and then forgot as the scent of another cowpat wafted by on the breeze.

I asked if Jack ever understood what Ned was talking about. Jack thought about the question for a few paces and then said, ‘Actually, I do know the dog word for "Bluebottle" or maybe it's a dog sentence about catching flies. Watch him and listen’ - here he suddenly opened his mouth from the lips-closed position, using only his jaw muscles and making a sound like a sort of wet click. Ned immediately rushed to the nearest cow splatter and started to snap at its flying fan-club. The demonstration was most convincing and one I have since repeated on other dogs with more than just an occasional success. By the end of the experiment and the inevitable disputation on what the dog-word really meant, we were over halfway to the stile and again taking more notice of the view than we were of the dog. It was then that we noticed the crows. Three wheeling black shapes in the clear air above the warrens on the opposite slope. Without thinking, I said, ‘Must be a dead rabbit.’

Of course it wouldn't have mattered if Ned had not been within earshot, patiently waiting for another doggy incitement to chase flies. It was the word ‘rabbit’ that did it. Ears pricked up and bluebottles, however fat and juicy, lost their immediate interest. There was no doubt that, for him, rabbits were more fun, easier to catch and much more satisfying. He stood tall, on his hind legs, scanning the field with ears, eyes and nose. I don't know what gave him the right direction, the birds in the sky, a sound, a scent in the air or the knowledge that, around here, there was only one likely place for rabbits. Whatever it was, he looked across the shallow valley towards the warrens, then with confidence displayed by every erect hair on his body, headed directly for the spiralling crows.

Between Ned and his target was half a field, the barbed-wire fence and the stream. For us to get to the warrens we should need to follow the path, well to the left of the straight line, climb over the stile, cross the stream and veer off to the right onto the sandy slopes. Such a course did not occur to Ned, his tactic with rabbits was to close the separating distance as quickly as possible and that meant a silent, straight-line sprint. We watched, envious of his energy, as he headed down-slope, gaining speed with every bound. The brambles and wire were stretched across his path. There were no obvious gaps and certainly none at ground level. We expected him to stop at the hazard, bouncing and barking in foolish frustration, but he seemed oblivious of the problem. Our admiration changed to anxiety as he approached the point of no-return.

‘Can he see the wire?’ I asked, knowing that dogs are not renowned for their eyesight. There was no reply and when I looked at Jack, his eyes were shut. ‘Does he often do this sort of thing?’ I added, and this time I was answered. ‘Yes, but I never look!’ - he crossed his fingers.

Confidence between man and beast? Well perhaps, but not much. Self confidence? Well, it looked like Ned had that, for sure. The fence loomed. The dog jumped, just a faster, longer bound in his series of long, fast bounds. There was no way he could clear the obstacle, he was much too low. A vision of torn and bloody fur flashed into my mind; I expected the next thing I saw would be a ragged body hanging on the wire.

Then, unbelievably, he was through, between the top two strands. Another bound and he was over the stream and hammering up the opposite hill. Sand and crows sprayed in every direction. Within moments, we saw him shaking the corpse of the poor dead bunny. Jack whistled. The dog stopped, dropped the rabbit and looked in our direction. His master yelled for him to stay, to wait there for us, but to no avail. Ned began the return journey. We could see him hurtling down the long face of the warren. We ran for the wire, perhaps if we were close to it he would stop short on the other side and not venture the leap. We loved the dog and I don't think either of us ever wanted to see him try that trick again. The success of his first jump might have been luck, or the workings of some unreliable canine guardian angel.

We didn't realise it at the time but the real problem was one of communication, or maybe just semantics. If ‘Stay’ meant anything to Ned, it meant stay where his master was pointing and to see where he was pointing, he had to be next to his master.

We reached the wire. Jack was still shouting ‘Stay!’ I glanced at him, again his eyes were closed. I stood in the long dip that ran along our side of the fence and stared through the horizontal slot between the top and middle wires. The gap was so narrow that I would have hesitated to put my head through it, for fear of catching my hair. On the other side, the black'n'white streak of the hound-dog express was heading for death or glory.

I was still watching when Ned took off, clean and sharp, from the other side of the stream, briefly touched down, between watercourse and fence with a double beat that I felt vibrating through the peat, then launched himself at the gap in the wire. I watched as he streamlined his body. Nose straight out in front, ears flat to his head, forelegs back along his belly, tail and hind-legs trailing behind. I stood aside, there was nothing I could do to stop him; the dog was committed.

For Ned, it would seem, this was all in the day's play of a conscientious collie. I wanted to close my eyes, but like the rest of me, the lids were frozen. For a split-second the tension was heart-stopping, then Ned flashed past my face, dead centre in that slim slice of safety; a furry arrow, flying straight and true.

Once I had my breath back, I could have, perhaps should have, applauded that sublime example of sheer self-confidence. To be honest, I would have, except for one thing - from the moment of take-off, just like those of his master, the dog's eyes had been tightly closed.

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Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©1997.  All rights reserved.

  - Photo copyright Seaside Man -

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