'There's not much in life I dislike,' muttered Bernard Watson to himself as he clambered over the stile between Cole Street Lane and Barrow Field.  'I reckon I'm a pretty tolerant fellow.  But irresponsible dog owners, who let their animals do their business just anywhere, so that little kids can play with it and get whatsitcalled and go blind...  Well, it just ain't right.'

He reached down to pat Marion, his squat mongrel retriever.  Marion gave him a look which, had she been human, might have implied that in reality Bernard's pet peeves encompassed almonds, American tourists, and anglers - and that was just the 'A's.  But Marion wasn't human and, in any event, Bernard rarely looked for subtlety and subtext in anyone around him, be they human or canine.

'It strikes me that we're getting more and more selfish,' he continued, tugging on Marion's lead as she momentarily considered leaping up at a passing, low-flying sparrow.  Marion shot him a disrespectful stare in return, as if not liking being part of a Bernard's generalised 'we'.  'City folk come out here and let their dogs of their leads - and the dogs go bonkers when they see sheep running about.  People just can't be bothered to think things through.  And who gets the blame?  The dog, that's who.'

He paused for a moment, trying to remember where the old footpath went next.

'Just look at Princess Anne.' he added.

Marion seemed to know the route well enough, and Bernard let her lead him towards the kissing gate set into the thick hedge at the far end of the field.  For some years Bernard had decided against bringing his dogs up here, for these fields skirted around the Retreat, and the trust that owned it had, for a while, tried to prevent the public from gaining access to their land.  But the ancient right of way that ran around one edge of the grounds was now legally established as a matter of fact, and a few weeks ago Bernard had returned to using one of his favourite walks.

Then, not three days previously, disaster had struck. Betsy, his beloved Irish wolfhound with a dodgy left eye and a penchant for barking during the theme tune to Coronation Street, had gone missing.  One minute she'd been behaving herself, as impeccable as ever, the next she pulled on the lead so hard that Bernard fell to the I ground.  He let go of her lead; she hurried towards the folly, just off the footpath, then started jumping around, saliva-flecked jaws snapping at nothing but fresh air.  Her growling, as she landed momentarily before another leap into the air, was unlike anything Bernard had ever heard in all his thirty years of keeping abandoned dogs.

Bernard had tried to reassure Betsy, calling out to the hound to encourage her back to his side, but she seemed blind and deaf to anything other than whatever it was that she thought she saw.

Suddenly Betsy stopped jumping, and Bernard hoped that she would return to him, but moments later, and with an ear-splitting, shrieking howl, she ran straight towards the weeds and brambles at the back of the folly.