Home at Last

Proof that sometimes a tiny fluffy fugitive can survive nearly three weeks in the wild, outsmart half a village, and still come home wagging his tail.

Yesterday was one of those days where a story that had been sitting in the back of your mind for weeks suddenly got the ending everyone had been hoping for.

The little cockerpoo puppy was finally home.

After sixteen days of disappearing into the countryside, surviving winter, avoiding everyone who was desperately trying to find him and apparently developing the survival skills of a tiny four-legged SAS operative, he was finally back where he belonged.

Safe.

Alive.

Home.

And although I didn't know this little dog personally, I have to admit that I've been thinking about him ever since I first heard he was missing. There was something about the whole story that really got under my skin. Perhaps it was because he was so young, perhaps it was because sixteen days is such a frighteningly long time to have no idea where your dog is, or perhaps it was simply because, when you work with dogs every day, you can't help putting yourself in the owner's position and imagining how awful it must feel not knowing whether you're ever going to see your dog again.

For days there had been sightings, searches, Facebook updates and people keeping their eyes open whenever they were out and about. Every little dog in the distance suddenly became a potential cockerpoo, and every rustle in a hedge seemed worthy of investigation. I'm sure there were probably people who hadn't paid this much attention to the countryside since they were children, suddenly scrutinising every field, hedge and woodland path as though they were starring in their own episode of Midsomer Murders: Where's the Bloody Puppy?

Then yesterday came the message everyone had been waiting for.

He was home.

I can only imagine the relief his owners must have felt. Sixteen days is an incredibly long time when you're waiting for your dog to come back, and even more so when that dog is a three-month-old puppy and it's the middle of winter. There must have been so many questions running through their minds — where had he been, where had he slept, what had he eaten and how on earth had such a tiny puppy managed to survive for so long?

We may never know the full story.

Although, personally, I remain convinced that the potatoes deserve some of the credit.

That little detail has amused me far more than it probably should. Somewhere out there, I like to imagine there was a tiny cockerpoo living his best woodland outlaw life, appearing from the undergrowth whenever he fancied something to eat, helping himself to whatever snacks were available and then disappearing again before anyone could catch him.

Perhaps he had a little den.

Perhaps he had a secret potato supply.

Perhaps he had befriended a rabbit who had been providing him with survival tips.

Knowing dogs, he was probably having the time of his life while an entire village was running around looking for him.

And then, just like that, he was home.

Probably exhausted, probably hungry and almost certainly being thoroughly spoiled. I can imagine him curling up somewhere warm, sleeping for about fourteen hours and then waking up wondering why everybody keeps looking at him as though he's just returned from the moon.

Meanwhile, I'm out walking the TLC gang, looking at my own collection of four-legged lunatics and thinking about how quickly things can change. One day you're searching hedgerows and wondering whether you'll ever see a little face again, and the next you're looking at a photograph of that same face safely back in someone's arms. It's funny how much a dog you've never even met can occupy a little corner of your thoughts, but dogs have a way of doing that. They somehow manage to become part of your emotional landscape without ever having met you.

So today I'm not going to spend the whole diary talking about the search, because yesterday was quite rightly the puppy's big day. Today is simply about appreciating the ending.

A little dog who was missing yesterday is home today.

That's enough.

Although I am still wondering exactly how many potatoes he ate.

Because sixteen days is an awfully long time to survive on nothing but charm.

And then there is my diary...

The puppy story got me thinking about something completely different today — my own diaries.

I've always loved diaries, and I think some of that goes right back to being a child and discovering The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13¾ by Sue Townsend.

For my twelfth birthday, I was given the book, and I remember reading it with Mum and absolutely loving it. It was so funny, and I loved the idea that somebody could take all the ordinary, ridiculous, embarrassing and completely random things that happen in everyday life and turn them into something worth writing down. We loved reading it together, happy memories.

I also loved the drawings.

Now, this is where we need to establish something important about my family.

My dad is a fabulous artist.

Gabe is a fabulous artist.

There is clearly some artistic talent in the family.

And then there's me.

I can draw.

Technically.

If we're being generous.

I could probably be quite good at drawing if I actually took the time to learn properly, practise and develop the skill, but unfortunately, I have absolutely no desire to do any of those things. I prefer doodling, which is much more convenient because doodling doesn't require commitment, patience or the horrifying possibility of discovering that you actually aren't as artistic as you thought you were.

My drawing technique has always been rather more “enthusiastic child with a biro” than “future Turner Prize nominee.”

Give me a blank page and I will happily fill it with little faces, random creatures, arrows, stars, speech bubbles and things that were definitely supposed to look like something else.

The problem is that my drawings often require a written explanation.

You know your artistic skills need work when the person looking at your picture says, “Oh, that's lovely... what is it?”

And you have to answer:

“It's a dog.”

Followed by:

“No, I mean, what is the dog doing?”

“Running.”

“Oh. I thought it was falling down the stairs.”

At which point you realise perhaps your artistic career isn't going to take off quite as quickly as your imagination suggested.

When I was thirteen, I received a diary for Christmas, and because my birthday is in May, by the time the new year started I was approximately thirteen and three-quarters.

Naturally, I did what any aspiring Adrian Mole would do.

I wrote across the front:

The Secret Diary of Tori Lynn Crowther Aged 13¾.

I thought this was brilliant.

I doodled all over the pages, wrote down things that seemed incredibly important at the time and generally treated it as my own little world. I loved having somewhere to put all the thoughts, observations and completely random things that didn't necessarily have anywhere else to go.

Looking back now, I think that little diary probably tells me quite a lot about why I still enjoy doing this.

Because this diary isn't really about writing a perfect account of my life. It's about capturing the things that make me laugh, the things that make me think, the people and animals who matter to me, and all the completely ordinary moments that would otherwise disappear into the background of everyday life.

And I think that's why I love adding the doodles.

They're not supposed to be great works of art.

They are simply mine.

My dad could probably draw something beautiful with a few strokes of a pencil. Gabe could probably produce something that actually resembles the thing he's attempting to draw. I, meanwhile, can produce a picture that starts out as a dog and somehow ends up looking like a confused potato with legs.

But that's fine.

If I wanted perfection, I'd get Gabe to draw it.

I want my diary to feel like my diary.

So, years after sitting with Mum reading Adrian Mole and attempting to copy the style of his drawings, I've somehow ended up here, writing my own version of a diary and filling the pages with my own slightly questionable artwork.

The difference is that Adrian had teenage angst, school, Margaret and his complicated love life.

I've got dogs.

Lots and lots of dogs.

And, judging by today's entry, apparently potatoes as well.

Maybe that's my version of teenage literature.

The Secret Diary of Tori Lynn Crowther, aged considerably more than 13¾, featuring dogs, muddy fields, questionable drawings and an unexplained number of potatoes.

I'm rather fond of it.