Boxing Day.

The traditional British day of rest.

In theory.

In Yorkshire, however, “rest” is mostly a myth told to children and southern softies.

Now, Andy and I work six or seven days a week most of the year.

I run the dog walking and training business and work as a dog walker mentor and

Andy’s a landscape gardener and builder.  Between us, we’ve spent more time ankle‑deep in mud than most bog‑snorkelling champions.

So Boxing Day had one sensible Yorkshire objective:

Do nowt.

No alarms.

No vans.

No muddy boots.

No Labradors dragging us across the fields like they’re training for the Tour de France.

A peaceful day at home.

Lovely.

This lasted approximately fourteen minutes.

The animals, having experienced the luxury of us being home all day yesterday, had come to a firm conclusion:

“Right. Staff’s in. Back to work.”

Alice began by nicking something off the kitchen side.

No one knows what it was — not even her.

She just grabbed it with the swagger of a seasoned burglar and legged it to the living room to eat it in secrecy.

Nicolas barked at the telly.

(We’ll never know why. Even he doesn’t know why.)

Shiva sat in the middle of the kitchen, observing everything with the calm disappointment of a Yorkshire pensioner watching a southern driver attempt a three‑point turn.

The cats had clearly held a committee meeting overnight.

Blossom drifted around like a fluffy ghost haunting a bungalow.

Mortimer followed Andy like a hairy auditor inspecting his life choices.

And Ursie… Ursie sat on the kitchen counter like an eight‑kilo gargoyle judging us for breathing.

Andy made coffee.

Alice tried to steal his toast.

Nicolas barked because Alice was stealing the toast.

Shiva ate the toast while everyone else was arguing about the toast.

Ben was constructing something complicated that involved plastic bits and muttering.

Gabe was narrating the chaos like David Attenborough:

“Here, we observe the British family in its natural habitat… losing control.”

At one point, Andy looked around the kitchen — dogs circling, cats supervising, kids negotiating biscuits — and said:

“I thought today were meant to be relaxing.”

At that exact moment:

• Nicolas started barking at the door.

• Alice started barking at Nicolas.

• Mortimer gracefully swept a spoon off the counter.

• Ursie strutted across Andy’s freshly buttered toast like she owned the place.

• And Shiva let out a German Shepherd sigh so dramatic it could’ve cracked windows.

Honestly, she was the wisest one in the room.

Because after 35 years with animals, here’s the truth:

When you live with dogs and cats, rest is nowt but a rumour.

After lunch we were attempting proper Yorkshire relaxing: wrapped in blankets, watching Christmas telly, scrolling Facebook like disgruntled burritos.

Then I saw it.

A post from one of my clients.

Her sister’s 12‑week‑old cockerpoo puppy had gone missing.

And not somewhere far away.

Oh no.

They live across the fields from us, Halifax is full of fields, trees, hills and mud.

Which upgrades the situation from “sad Facebook post” to

“Right. Boots on. We’re off.”

I looked up.

The dogs looked up.

You know when you accidentally say the word walk and suddenly every dog within a three‑mile radius materialises like you’ve summoned them with a spell?

Yeah. That.

Within seconds I’m surrounded by dogs vibrating with excitement like someone’s just dropped a sausage roll.

So off we go. Across t’fields.

The landscape was peak Boxing Day Yorkshire:

• Mud.

• Wind.

• Random bits of wrapping paper swirling round like festive tumbleweed.

A 12‑week‑old cockerpoo, being the size of a slipper and the density of a cloud, is basically impossible to find in a field.

It’s like trying to spot a marshmallow in a snowstorm.

But we were committed.

The dogs got straight to work with their usual investigative methods:

• Sniffing sheep poo

• Running in circles

• Having strong opinions about pheasants

Shiva, for about thirty seconds, acted like a fully qualified search dog.

Then she caught the scent of something approximately 153 years old and vanished into a hedge like a Victorian detective.

Nicky trotted along beside me with the expression of a tiny Yorkshire lord who is deeply unimpressed with outdoor life.

He looked like he wanted central heating and a biscuit, not a search mission.

Field one: nothing.

Field two: still nothing.

My hair now resembled a startled scarecrow.

We shouted the puppy’s name — Teddy, obviously.

Every cockerpoo is either called Teddy or Alfie or something that sounds like they wrote poetry by candlelight in 1892.

“TEEEEDDDYYYY!”

Echo.

Horses staring.

A crow giving us side‑eye.

Still no puppy.

At the hedge line, Shiva suddenly froze.

The moment.

The drama.

The destiny.

She launched into the hedge like a furry torpedo.

Leaves everywhere.

Branches shaking.

Movement!

I sprinted over thinking she’d heroically found the puppy.

She emerged proudly carrying…

a very old tennis ball, last used sometime during the 1998 Wimbledon warm‑ups, she was thrilled with herself. Nicky looked ashamed of us all.

We searched more fields.

I performed one graceful (ish) downhill slide.

The dogs acted like this was the best day of their lives.

Eventually the daylight faded.

Still no sign of Teddy the Tiny Escape Artist.

So we trudged home: cold, muddy, windswept, and smelling vaguely of despair. The dogs collapsed dramatically. Shiva curled up with her antique tennis ball. Nicky claimed the warmest spot like a little Yorkshire king returning to his throne. And I checked Facebook again.

Because in the modern age, missing‑puppy missions are monitored via muddy volunteers and social media updates.