A greyhound’s morning walk in disturbed. What was that noise? Was someone watching her?

Winter mornings at Crafty Dog Towers aren’t usually crisp and snow-layered, and this morning was no exception; being Swanseashire, it was raining though not too heavily.  The soggy drizzle didn’t seem to drop, rather it hung in the air, waiting for someone to walk past and then it would cling to them.  Gwennie the little greyhound had her best new waterproof on, over her striped jim-jams, in an effort to keep her warm for her morning toddle around the gardens.   Post breakfast, greyhounds had things that they needed to do, and she was looking for that special place.  As she settled to have that little wee, she got the feeling that she was being watched.  It put her off her game somewhat as she felt the hair on her neck prickle.  She looked around but couldn’t see anything or anyone.  Reassured she knelt again but even as she did so that tingle came back.

She stood up and turned around to look more carefully.  As she turned, she saw the plants in the flower bed move.  “Who’s there?” she asked, drawing herself up as tall and confident as a little greyhound could.  She swallowed, not feeling that confident on the inside!  She was aware that here at Crafty Dog Towers there were some very strange characters about, but it was too early for the ghostly Sir Marmaduke, and Myfanwy the llama was far too big to hide in a flowerbed.

The greenery rustled again and the leaves of the winter pansies gently parted, as a pointy nose poked out, followed by two dark eyes, and a head, then body, covered in spines.  It was a hedgehog!  Gwennie recognised it as she had occasionally seen them at night on the lawn when Mr Crafty Dog had let her out for her evening toilet trip.  She had never seen one during the day though.

“Sorry to bother you, Missus,” the hog spoke.  He was rather bedraggled – the rain hadn’t helped his appearance much.  As he talked the droplets of rain dripped off his nose and the slid off the ends of his prickles.

“Good morning,” Gwen answered him, remembering her manners, curtsying lightly (as much as her winter clothing would permit).

“Oi’ve seen yer around,” the hedgehog said, doffing his imaginary cap in deference to the greyhound. “The names Bertrum, or Bert as is most usual. You must be the Lady of this ‘ere ‘owse?”

Gwennie smiled, “Not quite!  But I do live here.  My name is Gwennie.”

“Oh, ‘tis rather fine,” the hedgehog gazed around the lawn towards the distant house.  From where he was, he could just make out the roof of the east wing, peeping over the garden wall, and through the gateway into the vegetable garden where Pendle could be distantly heard singing in his strange thready falsetto.

“It’s home,” the greyhound replied nonchalantly.  After all, didn’t everyone live in a stately home with staff?

“Oi was wonderin’ whether you might be able to help us out,” the old hedgehog asked. “Seein’ as you are a lady in this fine house and all that.”

“How can I help?” Gwen asked, sitting on her haunches, the better to come down to the hedgehog’s height.  As she looked at him, she could see marks on his face, and one of his eyes was slightly cloudy; evidently his life had been a hard one.

“Oi’ve a Missus of me own, and two young ‘uns what lives beyond those there red stone harses,” he nodded towards No 2 and 3 potting sheds.  “This Autumn ‘as been real ‘ard, like.  Too wet even for the slugs and snails.  So we is rather ‘ungry.”

“I see,” Gwen agreed, though she couldn’t understand the necessity of eating slugs and snails (unless the latter were cooked in garlic butter and served on a piece of toast).

“What I means is, could you, Milady, see your way to getting us some food?” If the hedgehog had owned a cloth cap, at this point he would have wrung it between his front paws.

“I’m afraid my staff don’t do slugs.  What about toast and cheese, or maybe dog food?”

“Ah, now then, dog food sounds good.  Ain’t never eaten toast and cheese so, beggin’ yer pardon, I’ll give that a miss.”

“Dog food.  Ok, what flavour” the young greyhound asked.

“Eh?  Ain’t dog meat jus dog meat?” the old hog was a bit perplexed.

Gwennie was aghast, “My dear me, of course not!  We have chicken, chicken with game, turkey with game, lamb, beef with gravy, beef with vegetables, and then there’s whatever Cook can rustle up.”

Bert took a few moments as he digested mentally what he could be digesting actually.  “We used ‘ter go to the other ‘owse over yonder,” he indicated over the fields to the nearest neighbour. “But they ‘as moved and the new folk ‘as big ‘ungry cats as aren’t too friendly to us hedgefolk.”  He was still musing over the menu options.  “’Owse about some of that there chicken?  That sounds grand.”

“Certainly.  I will ask Mr Grout to bring some down.  Should I ask him to put it here, on the edge of the lawn?  Would that be alright?” Gwennie inquired.

“Oh, that would be right grand.  I’ll bring the family to eat the nosh here, if that’s alright?  This evening, once all the big people ‘as gone ter sleep?” Bert beamed.

“I’ll let Grout know.”  She watched the old hedgehog turn and make his way back into the undergrowth.  “Thank yer Milady,” he said over his spiky shoulder as he slipped away.

“One thing though,” Gwen called to the retreating hedgehog.

“Yuss?” Bert asked, halting to turn, his head peeped out between the calendula leaves.

“I know that Mr Grout will ask you something in return,” Gwen said.

“Anything,” Bert answered, “’as you is so kind and all.”

Gwen smiled, “Could you please stop eating his daffodil bulbs.  It makes him furious!”

“We’ll leave them alone,” the old hog laughed.  Gwen could hear him chuckling as he disappeared into the greenery.

Gwennie stood up.  Now she only had to get Grout to deliver a tray of dog food here to the great lawn this evening.  She raised her head and looked around.  The rain had stopped and, miracle of miracles, the sun was coming out!