Wednesday arrived grey, damp, and ready to remind me why dog walking is never, ever just a walk.

The cast today:

• Alice – already convinced that every bush is a personal playground.

• Nicolas – on high alert because the wind was suspiciously loud.

• Shiva – calm, dignified, disaster-prepared.

• Three client dogs – large, overexcited, and apparently trained in chaos theory.

We set off with the usual cautious optimism. The morning began normally… well, as normally as a group of dogs can behave when every squirrel is a personal threat and every puddle is an enemy combatant. Alice rolled in mud immediately. Nicolas barked at absolutely everything. Shiva calmly tried to herd us away from both.

Then it happened.

As we reached the far end of the field, behind a cluster of bushes, I heard a strange groaning. A human groaning. In the bushes. Curiosity, survival instinct, and professional responsibility all collided. I went to investigate.

And there he was. A man, fully sprawled in the undergrowth, looking pale, sweaty, and very, very convinced he was dead. Possibly intoxicated with… well, let’s call it “New Year’s enthusiasm.”

He stared at me with wide eyes. “I’m… dead,” he whispered dramatically.

I took a step back. Shiva stepped forward, calmly assessing the situation like some kind of German Shepherd paramedic. Alice barked once, as if to say: We should chase him now. Nicolas barked repeatedly, mostly at me, because clearly I was responsible for this.

I realised I couldn’t reason with him. I couldn’t explain physics or biology or that being dead usually doesn’t involve lying in mud while clutching an empty bottle.

So I did what any responsible adult and professional dog walker would do: called an ambulance.

He protested loudly. “No! I’m… dead! Don’t call them! They’ll… they’ll know!”

Clara, one of my team leaders, had arrived to help herd the dogs and had been blissfully unaware until now, looked horrified. “Did he just say he’s dead?”

“Yes,” I said. “And apparently, we need paramedics to confirm it.”

We waited. Alice stared at the man suspiciously. Nicolas barked instructions at him. Shiva sat patiently. Clara muttered something about walking dogs being safer than this. Eventually, the ambulance arrived. Paramedics assessed the situation. The man, still convinced of his own mortality, was carried off—kicking and shouting poetic statements about life, death, and bad decisions made the night before.

We returned to the dogs. The client dogs had remained remarkably calm, or at least calm compared to the human in the bushes. Alice found another stick. Nicolas barked at a pigeon. Shiva sighed.

By the time we got back to the vans, we were muddy, wet, slightly traumatised, and infinitely grateful for the mundane chaos of dogs compared to the surreal chaos of semi-dead humans in hedges.

Back home, the cats were unimpressed. Ursie glared. Mortimer, tail high, wandered carefully, assessing the air for danger. Blossom blinked, judging everything, clearly thinking: Humans are ridiculous. I poured coffee, still shaking slightly. Shiva gave me a look that clearly said: Next time, stick to dogs.

Diary note: Dogs are unpredictable. People are terrifying. But somehow, dogs are easier to manage.