Читать книгу Mr Dog and a Hedge Called Hog - Ben Fogle, Ben Fogle - Страница 8
ОглавлениеAs the sun sank lower in the sky, Mr Dog made his way through sloping meadows that were carpeted with long grass and rich with flowers.
Wind-blown trees pointed inland, to where the fields were spread out like patchwork with thick hedges at their edges.
‘But are there any hedgies in the hedges?’ Mr Dog wondered aloud as he trotted onward. He wanted to warn as many of the little animals as he could about the hunt. It was a large island, though, and he didn’t even know where the hunt would be taking place.
Still, I have to try, he thought.
Once Mr Dog reached the first hedge, he pushed his nose underneath. He sniffed all the way along to the next field but couldn’t find any hedgehogs.
He caught a sniff of the little snufflers in the spiky hedgerow in the next field, but again he couldn’t work out their location. Sleeping by day, they were well hidden and safe from sight – but not from the sniffer dogs trained to hunt them down in the darkness.
As Mr Dog was wondering what to do, he spotted a hare hopping through the waving grass. ‘I say!’ he called. ‘Could I ask you for directions?’
‘To where?’ wondered the hare.
‘To the nearest hedgehogs!’ Mr Dog said with a grin.
The hare looked wary. ‘Ah. You must be one of those hunting hounds.’
‘Must I?’ Mr Dog frowned. ‘Why? Have you seen some hunting hounds out lately?’
‘I have, yes. Out on Fosset’s Moor,’ the hare went on. ‘I was chased by a ridgeback and a bloodhound there this morning. They told me they’d catch me if I was back again tonight. Well, not likely!’
‘That’s interesting.’ Mr Dog wagged his tail thoughtfully. ‘It sounds as if the hunt will be on Fosset’s Moor.’ He barked across to the hare. ‘If you tell me where Fosset’s Moor is, I’ll tell those hounds to leave you alone!’
‘Oh. Thanks, friend.’ The hare thumped his back leg. ‘Keep travelling east in a straight line. Once you’ve climbed the hill, you’ll be looking down over Fosset’s Moor.’
‘I’m moor than grateful to you!’
With a woof of farewell, Mr Dog scampered away. He ran through fields of heather, vaulted over fences, jumped over a ditch, doubled back to drink some water from the ditch, then on he ran again.
Half an hour later, as it was starting to get dark, he reached the steep hillside that the hare had described. Trotting to the top, he found a large stretch of grassland sloping away from him, lined with long, tangled rows of bushes.
‘Time to investigate,’ he panted, and sniffed his way along the old, gnarled hedgerow. Many scents caught in his nostrils – honeysuckle, harvest mice, hawthorn … and HEDGEHOG! Yes, thought Mr Dog with growing excitement. It was the same smell he’d noticed in Lizzie Toddy’s crates. And with night falling, the hedgies would be waking up.
Mr Dog searched about more carefully. He found a pile of damp leaves and twigs, but the long grass tickled his nose and made him sneeze.
‘EEK!’ the leaves seemed to squeal and Mr Dog jumped back in surprise.
‘Hello?’ He got down on his belly and crawled a little closer. ‘Anyone there?’
‘No,’ came a quivering voice.
‘Oh.’ Mr Dog frowned and cocked his head. ‘Are you sure no one’s there?’
‘Definitely not!’ said the shaky voice. ‘No hedgehogs here. Only a hedge.’
Mr Dog couldn’t help but smile. ‘So, I’m talking to a hedge?’
‘Yes, you are, and the hedge isn’t talking back to you,’ the voice said. ‘So there.’
‘Is that so?’ Mr Dog replied. ‘Well, thank you for letting me know.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I’m welcome? In that case, I’ll come back!’ Mr Dog eagerly pushed his head back under the bushes. ‘Hello!’
‘EEK!’ came the squeal again.
‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ said Mr Dog. ‘Tell me, does this hedge have a name?’
‘Hog,’ came the little voice.
‘A hedge called Hog, eh?’ Mr Dog grinned. ‘You know, I think it’s more likely you’re a hog called Hedge!’
‘No! My name is Hog, honest …’ In the twilight, Mr Dog saw a little black nose push out from the leaves. Two beady black eyes and a spiky fringe followed close behind. Before he knew it, Mr Dog was snout to snout with a young hedgehog!
‘EEP!’ Hog’s eyes widened with alarm and, in a heartbeat, he rolled himself up into a spiky ball.
Mr Dog blinked. ‘Goodness, I wish I could do a trick like that. Although then I suppose I’d have to call myself Mr Hog instead of Mr Dog.’
‘Whoever you are, you’re scary,’ said Hog, trembling.
‘Hairy, yes. Scary, never,’ said Mr Dog. ‘The D-O-G in my name stands for Delightful Old Gentleman! Well, probably.’
‘My mum told me about dogs!’ Hog’s quills quivered as he spoke. ‘She told me that the two-legged giants take sniffy dogs and go hunting for hedgies.’
‘I think you mean “sniffer” dogs,’ said Mr Dog.
‘The sniffing sniffy sniffer dogs sniff us out, and the giants sweep sticks through the long grass and poke us hedgies into the open.’ Hog gave a long, snuffling sigh. ‘And we’re never seen again.’
‘What a terrible story! Wait.’ Mr Dog reversed out from under the hedgerow and sniffed the air. ‘I can smell something …’
‘Maybe it’s an escaping hedgehog!’ Hog squealed and beetled away along the side of the hedgerow, heading down the hillside. ‘Goodbye, scary dog! I’m off!’
‘Hog, come back!’ It had grown dark, but Mr Dog’s senses were keen. His nose was filling with wet, animal smells. At the same time, he saw bright lights bobbing up the hill towards him, the same way he’d come. There were noises too: a thumping, crashing sound and excited yelps. Hounds – and lots of them.
‘Good boy, Dandy!’ Mrs Maitland’s voice carried through the darkness. ‘Have you found one? Found a hedgehog for us …?’
‘Oh, dear!’ Mr Dog ran down the hill after the little hedgehog as the crashing got closer. ‘The hunt is coming, Hog – and I’m afraid they’re hunting you!’
