Mr Dog and a Hedge Called Hog

Chapter One

CRATES AND CASES

It was a bright but chilly April afternoon. A hard sea wind huffed at the ferryboat as it braved the waves off the craggy coast of Scotland.

The people on board had no idea that a stowaway had crept on. A furry, four-legged, rather scruffy stowaway, who was now hiding below deck in the cargo hold! Aside from his white beard and front paws, his fur was dark and shaggy. A ragged red-and-white hanky was tied about his neck. His ears were floppy, his nose was large and his brown eyes sparkled even in the gloom.

He wasn’t just a dog. He was Mr Dog.

Mr Dog was a big fan of adventures, so he’d been roaming all over, from the south of England way up to the highlands of Scotland. It was there that he’d spied a group of people in a pretty little town catching the ferryboat to some islands off the coast, so he had crept into the cargo hold to go with them – and now, here he was!

To his surprise, he had found the hold mostly full of animal crates and carriers – at least forty of them. From the smell, he could tell that they had been used very recently. Some of them still had a few crushed dog biscuits inside (although with a hungry Mr Dog around, not for long). The funny thing, though, was that the crates didn’t smell of dogs or cats or even of rabbits or rats, but of another animal – one that Mr Dog couldn’t quite recognise. Someone had left a little fresh water in some of the bowls, so Mr Dog was glad of that.

Finally, the ferryboat slowed as it neared its destination, and Mr Dog felt the usual thrill of excitement at being about to explore somewhere new. ‘Now, how to get off without being seen?’ he mused.

Just then, the door to the hold was thrown open. Mr Dog ducked inside a pet carrier with solid plastic sides as a lady with frizzy blonde hair, wearing a bright red coat, bustled inside.

‘I can see Jed’s pick-up truck waiting,’ the lady called to one of the crew. ‘He’ll help me unload the empty crates.’

‘Right you are, Lizzie,’ a woman called back.

How kind of this Jed to help Lizzie – and to help me too! thought Mr Dog. I may as well stay in here and be carried off in style …

Sure enough, once the boat had moored up, Jed came aboard and helped frizzy-haired Lizzie shift the crates and cages out of the hold. It took several trips. Mr Dog held his breath as his own carrier was lifted up.

‘This one weighs a ton!’ Jed declared.

How dare you! thought Mr Dog with a secret chuckle.

As soon as his carrier was put down, Mr Dog cautiously nosed open the door and peered out. He was in the back of Jed’s pick-up truck, which was as red as Lizzie’s coat and parked on a pier beside a small rocky harbour. Suddenly, he heard angry voices from beside a dark green van parked close by. Lizzie was arguing with another woman, whose sharp features reminded Mr Dog of a hunting bird, and he raised his ears to listen in.

‘If I’d known you were only going over to the mainland to bring back more spotlights, Mrs Maitland, I’d have thrown them overboard!’ said Lizzie hotly. ‘What you’ve been doing to those hedgies is plain cruel!’

Mr Dog was puzzled. ‘Cruelty to hedgies?’ he murmured. ‘Whatever does she mean?’

Mrs Maitland remained calm and haughty. ‘They don’t belong on the Isle of Evan, Lizzie. We’ll get rid of them a lot faster by hunting them down than by taking them over to the mainland in crates …’

‘Rubbish!’ Lizzie insisted. ‘Your hunts are dangerous and unnecessary and they’re going to stop – mark my words.’

‘Are they indeed!’ Mrs Maitland sneered.

‘Is a hedgie like a hedge?’ Mr Dog wondered aloud (although to humans, of course, it came out as Grrr, wuff-wuff RUFF!). He jumped down from Jed’s pick-up truck and trotted past the other side of Mrs Maitland’s green van, shaking his head. ‘I should think it is unnecessary to hunt down a hedge – it just stands there and lets you find it!’

‘They’re not talking about hedges.’ A large, sturdy tan basset hound in a thick leather collar leaned through the van window. ‘They’re talking about hedgehogs.’

‘Hedgehogs!’ Mr Dog grinned. ‘Of course, that was the smell in those cages. Wait a moment. Why are hedgehogs being taken to the mainland? Why don’t they belong on this island?’

‘Who cares?’ said the basset hound. ‘If Mrs Maitland says they don’t, then they don’t. She’s my mistress, after all.’

‘So Mrs Maitland is hunting these hedgies?’

‘No, dogs like me are hunting them.’ The basset hound looked confused. ‘Aren’t you hunting them too?’

‘Goodness, no! The only things I’m hunting are happy memories.’ He raised a paw. ‘I’m Mr Dog, by the way.’

‘My name’s Dandy.’ The basset hound looked suspiciously at Mr Dog. ‘I’ve never seen you before on the island. Did you come over from the mainland with Lizzie? Or “Lizzie Toddy, busybody”, as my mistress calls her.’

Mr Dog was not impressed by name-calling. ‘I did come over from the mainland,’ he said, ‘but not with Lizzie. I just cadged a lift in the boat.’

‘Well, perhaps you’d like to join us on the hunt tonight?’ said Dandy. ‘It’s a good chase with all the other sniffer dogs, plus it’s even more fun in the dark.’

‘So that’s why you need the spotlights! Hedgehogs only come out at night.’ Mr Dog sighed. He always felt sorry for an underdog – or an underhog in this case. ‘Well, thanks for the invite to the hunt, but no thanks. I hope it all goes wonderfully well …’ As he turned, he added quietly, ‘for the hedgehogs!’

‘I heard that!’ Dandy’s hackles rose. ‘Well, just make sure you stay out of the way of my hunting pals and me … and don’t make friends with any hedgies if you know what’s good for you.’

‘Perhaps I should change my name to Mr Doog?’ Mr Dog grinned. ‘Then I’d know what’s good for me backwards!’

By now, Mrs Maitland had loaded her spotlights into her van and was clambering into the driver’s seat beside Dandy. ‘Stop grumbling, boy!’ she snapped at his low growls. ‘I’m the one who should grumble, having to deal with Lizzie Toddy, busybody …’

Dandy barked an ‘I told you so’ at Mr Dog. Then the van’s engine started and Mr Dog scampered away. Mrs Maitland and Dandy drove off, then Lizzie and Jed drove away in the opposite direction.

Mr Dog trotted up the nearest grassy hillside to take a good look around at his surroundings and plan his next steps. But, really, he already knew what he was going to do.

‘It sounds like the Isle of Evan’s hedgies could use a good friend,’ he declared. ‘Luckily, good friends don’t come any shaggier or waggier than Mr Dog!’

Chapter Two

A HEDGE CALLED HOG

As the sun sank lower in the sky, Mr Dog made his way through sloping meadows that were carpeted with long grass and rich with flowers.

Wind-blown trees pointed inland, to where the fields were spread out like patchwork with thick hedges at their edges.

‘But are there any hedgies in the hedges?’ Mr Dog wondered aloud as he trotted onward. He wanted to warn as many of the little animals as he could about the hunt. It was a large island, though, and he didn’t even know where the hunt would be taking place.

Still, I have to try, he thought.

Once Mr Dog reached the first hedge, he pushed his nose underneath. He sniffed all the way along to the next field but couldn’t find any hedgehogs.

He caught a sniff of the little snufflers in the spiky hedgerow in the next field, but again he couldn’t work out their location. Sleeping by day, they were well hidden and safe from sight – but not from the sniffer dogs trained to hunt them down in the darkness.

As Mr Dog was wondering what to do, he spotted a hare hopping through the waving grass. ‘I say!’ he called. ‘Could I ask you for directions?’

‘To where?’ wondered the hare.

‘To the nearest hedgehogs!’ Mr Dog said with a grin.

The hare looked wary. ‘Ah. You must be one of those hunting hounds.’

‘Must I?’ Mr Dog frowned. ‘Why? Have you seen some hunting hounds out lately?’

‘I have, yes. Out on Fosset’s Moor,’ the hare went on. ‘I was chased by a ridgeback and a bloodhound there this morning. They told me they’d catch me if I was back again tonight. Well, not likely!’

‘That’s interesting.’ Mr Dog wagged his tail thoughtfully. ‘It sounds as if the hunt will be on Fosset’s Moor.’ He barked across to the hare. ‘If you tell me where Fosset’s Moor is, I’ll tell those hounds to leave you alone!’

‘Oh. Thanks, friend.’ The hare thumped his back leg. ‘Keep travelling east in a straight line. Once you’ve climbed the hill, you’ll be looking down over Fosset’s Moor.’

‘I’m moor than grateful to you!’

With a woof of farewell, Mr Dog scampered away. He ran through fields of heather, vaulted over fences, jumped over a ditch, doubled back to drink some water from the ditch, then on he ran again.

Half an hour later, as it was starting to get dark, he reached the steep hillside that the hare had described. Trotting to the top, he found a large stretch of grassland sloping away from him, lined with long, tangled rows of bushes.

‘Time to investigate,’ he panted, and sniffed his way along the old, gnarled hedgerow. Many scents caught in his nostrils – honeysuckle, harvest mice, hawthorn … and HEDGEHOG! Yes, thought Mr Dog with growing excitement. It was the same smell he’d noticed in Lizzie Toddy’s crates. And with night falling, the hedgies would be waking up.

Mr Dog searched about more carefully. He found a pile of damp leaves and twigs, but the long grass tickled his nose and made him sneeze.

‘EEK!’ the leaves seemed to squeal and Mr Dog jumped back in surprise.

‘Hello?’ He got down on his belly and crawled a little closer. ‘Anyone there?’

‘No,’ came a quivering voice.

‘Oh.’ Mr Dog frowned and cocked his head. ‘Are you sure no one’s there?’

‘Definitely not!’ said the shaky voice. ‘No hedgehogs here. Only a hedge.’

Mr Dog couldn’t help but smile. ‘So, I’m talking to a hedge?’

‘Yes, you are, and the hedge isn’t talking back to you,’ the voice said. ‘So there.’

‘Is that so?’ Mr Dog replied. ‘Well, thank you for letting me know.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘I’m welcome? In that case, I’ll come back!’ Mr Dog eagerly pushed his head back under the bushes. ‘Hello!’

‘EEK!’ came the squeal again.

‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ said Mr Dog. ‘Tell me, does this hedge have a name?’

‘Hog,’ came the little voice.

‘A hedge called Hog, eh?’ Mr Dog grinned. ‘You know, I think it’s more likely you’re a hog called Hedge!’

‘No! My name is Hog, honest …’ In the twilight, Mr Dog saw a little black nose push out from the leaves. Two beady black eyes and a spiky fringe followed close behind. Before he knew it, Mr Dog was snout to snout with a young hedgehog!

‘EEP!’ Hog’s eyes widened with alarm and, in a heartbeat, he rolled himself up into a spiky ball.

Mr Dog blinked. ‘Goodness, I wish I could do a trick like that. Although then I suppose I’d have to call myself Mr Hog instead of Mr Dog.’

‘Whoever you are, you’re scary,’ said Hog, trembling.

‘Hairy, yes. Scary, never,’ said Mr Dog. ‘The D-O-G in my name stands for Delightful Old Gentleman! Well, probably.’

‘My mum told me about dogs!’ Hog’s quills quivered as he spoke. ‘She told me that the two-legged giants take sniffy dogs and go hunting for hedgies.’

‘I think you mean “sniffer” dogs,’ said Mr Dog.

‘The sniffing sniffy sniffer dogs sniff us out, and the giants sweep sticks through the long grass and poke us hedgies into the open.’ Hog gave a long, snuffling sigh. ‘And we’re never seen again.’

‘What a terrible story! Wait.’ Mr Dog reversed out from under the hedgerow and sniffed the air. ‘I can smell something …’

‘Maybe it’s an escaping hedgehog!’ Hog squealed and beetled away along the side of the hedgerow, heading down the hillside. ‘Goodbye, scary dog! I’m off!’

‘Hog, come back!’ It had grown dark, but Mr Dog’s senses were keen. His nose was filling with wet, animal smells. At the same time, he saw bright lights bobbing up the hill towards him, the same way he’d come. There were noises too: a thumping, crashing sound and excited yelps. Hounds – and lots of them.

‘Good boy, Dandy!’ Mrs Maitland’s voice carried through the darkness. ‘Have you found one? Found a hedgehog for us …?’

‘Oh, dear!’ Mr Dog ran down the hill after the little hedgehog as the crashing got closer. ‘The hunt is coming, Hog – and I’m afraid they’re hunting you!’