We're a dog down.So it's on with the wellies and out to the fields. I'm out roaring ROSIE! ROSIE! I wish I could whistle but I can't so I just plod around the perimeter of the fields shouting out for her every 5 minutes or so. Nothing. I'm imagining her shot or worse. What's worse than being shot? Being half shot lying, dying like a dog (literally) in a ditch. This image is so heart-breaking that I start sobbing. I hear whistling coming from the planting. Bert is out tramping the fields too and whistling (lucky bugger that he can). I'm sobbing and shouting. After half an hour I decide to give it up. It's starting to get dark. I'm hoping that she'll be in the yard when I get back but she's not.
What! Which dog? Where's Scruff?
Scruff's OK. He's away out with Hannah and Zoe.
Where's Rosie. What's happened? Is she alright?
Her and Paddy have been away since 8 this morning. Paddy's back about half an hour but there's no sign of Rosie.
What! And you're lying there!
So I wander around the house distraught. I end up on the sofa and I'm crying my eyes out. I never cried this much when Danny (best dog ever) died. Hell I never cried this much when Daddy died. Then this brown thing appears at the door. Doesn't even look ashamed. She's not supposed to be brown. She's supposed to be black and white. But she's brown as mud. Was I pleased? I was. Sort of. It meant I could stop crying.
Bert and Hannah are crap at looking after the scunging devil dogs. It takes me to keep them at home.
It was only when I went out to call Bert home than I properly realised that the poor bloke was poorly. He had man flu. And he still went out dog-hunting. That's how scared of me he is.