The Cockerpoo Hunt Continues

Today arrived grey, damp, and buzzing with the promise of chaos on leads. After the rare luxury of Sunday, there was no mercy today: client dogs were back, the streets were slippery, and my own pack—Alice, Nicolas, and Shiva—were reluctantly dragged into the fray.

I poured my first cup of coffee while the dogs eyed me as if to say: You know we’re about to ruin everything, right? Alice moved slower than usual, her age evident in every careful step, but her determination was still there—quiet, stubborn, and utterly adorable. Nicolas barked at anything that moved, including leaves, shadows, and the general concept of morning. Shiva walked beside me, calm, competent, and ready to referee the inevitable chaos.

The client dogs were a different story. A small herd of excitable mutts, convinced that the world was made entirely of sticks, puddles, and their own boundless energy. Within minutes, we were weaving a tangled symphony of barking, tugging, and muddy paws.

Alice tolerated the madness with the patience of a tiny, scruffy saint. Nicolas, predictably, had decided that every sniff meant imminent danger. Shiva herded, nudged, and sighed audibly, probably contemplating retirement from human employment.

Just when the whole village had started to accept that the missing cockerpoo had either joined a travelling circus or founded a small independent republic somewhere in the woods…

A sighting.

Not in the woods.

Not in the fields.

But at the garage just beyond the field across the road.

Now this information spreads through the village faster than gossip about someone reversing into a wall at the school run.

Within minutes:

Facebook explodes.

Phones buzz.

People start appearing in coats and wellies.

Because nothing mobilises rural Britain quite like a missing puppy and a rumour.

Apparently someone spotted a small fluffy dog darting around the back of the garage, near the bins and hedges.

Which means one thing.

Search party.

I’m halfway through organising the morning dog walks when the messages start.

“Have you heard?”

“They’ve seen him!”

“At the garage!”

“Tiny fluffy thing!”

“Definitely a cockerpoo!”

Well.

This changes everything.

I finish the urgent business messages first because dogs still need walking and the team still need instructions.  Professionalism must prevail.

Even when a small carbohydrate-powered fugitive may be nearby.

Once the walks are sorted, I grab my coat and head across the fields.

And it becomes immediately clear…

Everyone is here.

Dog walkers.

Farmers.

Random villagers who definitely did not have plans to search hedgerows this morning but are now deeply invested.

Even people who have never previously expressed interest in dogs are wandering about saying things like:

“Small one, was it?”

“Bit curly?”

“Could’ve been that puppy.”

The garage itself looks mildly confused about the sudden increase in human activity.

Cars coming and going.

People peering under vans.

Someone examining a hedge with the seriousness of a forensic investigator.

I arrive just in time to see a group of people pointing towards the bushes behind the building.

“He was there!”

“No, by the bins!”

“I saw something run that way!”

The problem with a tiny, frightened puppy is that it has roughly the same visibility as a moving slipper.

Especially in January mud.

We spread out.

Some people check the hedgerows.

Others search the field edges.

Someone shakes a bag of dog biscuits like a maraca.

Which, unfortunately, mainly attracts three Labradors that definitely belong to other people.

I walk the edge of the field slowly, scanning the grass and listening.

No barking.

No rustling.

Just wind and distant traffic.

Then someone shouts from near the garage.

“THERE!”

Everyone turns.

Hope rises.

Adrenaline kicks in.

People start moving towards the spot.

A small brown shape darts out from under a van.

Gasps.

Excitement.

Someone crouches low and calls softly.

The tiny creature pauses for one hopeful second…

…and then shoots across the car park like a furry rocket and disappears straight back into the hedges.

Too fast.

Too small.

Gone again.

But this time we know something important.

He’s alive.

The tiny potato-loving escape artist has officially been seen.

Which means the search continues.

And judging by the number of villagers currently standing in a garage car park discussing tactical biscuit deployment…

this cockerpoo puppy now has an entire village determined to bring him home.

Diary note: Mondays are brutal. Client dogs are chaotic. Mud is inevitable. But somehow, between coffee sips and chaotic paws, we survive. And Alice? She survives with style.