The Return of the Potato Bandit

This morning began like most winter mornings.

Dark.

Cold.

Coffee required before speech.

I’m halfway through checking messages when my phone started pinging like a slot machine in a Las Vegas casino.

Facebook notifications.

Texts.

Voice notes.

Which can only mean one thing in village life.  Something has happened.  And this time, for once, it’s good news.

The message appears.

“THE PUPPY IS HOME.”

After sixteen days of vanishing acts, woodland survival, and what we can only assume was a heavily potato-based diet… the tiny cockerpoo has been found.

Alive.

Safe.

Slightly thinner.

And apparently very pleased to see humans again.

The story starts early this morning when someone spotted the small fluffy outlaw again near the garage beyond the field, but this time the village was ready.

Word spread quickly.

Owners arrived.

Helpers appeared.

People armed themselves with leads, blankets, and what I can only imagine was half the contents of several treat cupboards.

Now catching a frightened puppy is not a simple matter.

You can’t chase them.

You can’t grab them.

You have to become extremely boring and very snack-based.

Apparently, the owners sat quietly on the ground with food, talking softly while the puppy circled nervously like a tiny suspicious cloud.

Minutes passed.

Then hours.

Then more hours.

Then the moment.

Slowly…

very slowly…

the puppy crept closer.

One sniff.

Another.

And finally, someone managed to slip a lead over his head.

At which point the entire village probably exhaled for the first time since Boxing Day.

The Great Cockerpoo Mystery was officially over.

News spreads through Facebook faster than any official announcement ever could.

Photos appear.

Comments flood in.

Hundreds of people who have never met the dog celebrate like he’s just completed a heroic Arctic expedition.

Which, in fairness, he kind of has.

Sixteen days in January.

Fields.

Woods.

Cold nights.

And somehow surviving long enough to be reunited with his family.

By the time I head out for the morning walks, the atmosphere in the village feels lighter.  People are smiling.  Neighbours are stopping to chat, everyone has a theory about how he survived. Personally, I’m still convinced the potato mountain played a key role in the operation.

Back at home the dogs remain unimpressed with the entire story.

Alice snores.

Nicolas grumbles.

Shiva watches the world with calm German Shepherd wisdom.

The cats are equally unmoved.

Ursie sits on the stairs like an eight-kilo judge who has heard the case and decided it was all unnecessary drama.

Mortimer sniffs the air as if checking whether the returned puppy might also bring snacks.

And I make a final note in my diary.

Diary note: Never underestimate a cockerpoo, a bag of potatoes, or a village that has decided it is going to find you.