“Hey Mum & Dad, guess what? Winston disappeared, so I headed out with his favorite toys on a wild adventure through rain, meadow, and eerie quiet to find him. Found him in a hollow, sniffing out a truce with a litter of kittens. We’re back, Spencerville sighing, Winston with a purr-fect story. Miss you! – Dicki”

Listen to the story here.

I’d seen Winston, that white and brindle Continental Bulldog – muscle-bound and as tenacious as the old English Bulldogs, amicable but staunch on the love for his sofa. Slouched there, ardent and spry, as sunbeams poured into his small corner of paradise. His abode, Spencerville, a place where furry souls lingered after what men call ‘death’. Fancied the food at Pooched Potatoes, gnawing on a cheese patty or chicken heart with a joyous savagery. No cucumbers though, they never floated his boat.

One day, out of the blue, vanished. His cherished sofa, a vacant void. The soothsayers whispered about the South Siberian Summit, a haven for adventure-loving hounds. Always been an explorer, Winston, can’t resist an exploration. But this time, missing without a trace. His buddies, Finja and Smilla equally puzzled, sniffed around helplessly.

I decided to set out on a hunt myself, armed only with his favorite toys – a sturdy tug rope, and a rolling frisbee. Thunderclouds loomed ominously over Spencerville, the heavens poised for a downpour; rain, Winston’s nemesis. As the first droplets hit the ground, my blood ran cold – a shiver shot through my spine. I wasn’t the fear-struck, storybook chap, yet something about the uncanny quiet was unhinging.

A lone canine bayed in the distance, an eerie echo reaching me across the windswept landscape that lay between the summit and I. I pressed on, the mystery of Winston’s absence fueled my determination. There was a haunting allure to the wilderness as I plunged through it, making my way towards the summit. Lurking dangers were a possibility. Snakes, mountain goats, maybe even a wild cat – God knows Winston never favored them.

The journey was fraught with moments of panic, heightened senses prickling with every rustle. Just as I made my way through Maltese Meadow, an uncanny hush fell over the place – the kind that freezes marrow and makes your instincts scream ‘danger’. The winds whispered in muted tones as if stifling an untold secret, the meadow somehow narrower, the trees taller.

Then, out of nowhere, a whistling frisbee cut through the gloom, rolling to stop at my feet. No doubt, it was his, that dashingly daring bulldog. A whimper echoed through the night, the calm of the evening shattered. I followed the sound, fear and anticipation warring within.

And there, in a hidden hollow by the foothills, Winston, beleaguered and beaten. Beside him, huddled and shaking, a litter of newly-born cats. Cats in a dog’s world, a terrible sight, enough to bring tears to the hardest heart. But the warmth in Winston’s eyes was undeniable; even rivals become friends in Spencerville. Finally, the age-old war paused, the dog did the unthinkable.

I smiled, picking up the little family, heading back to town. The relief, palpable. Sighs of contentment settling like a warm blanket over Spencerville. Rain was falling, and on this day, Winston ignored his dislike for water, drinking in the cool comfort. And as we settled back onto his sofa – no place like home, he seemed to say – I realized the quiet thrill of our return was as satisfying as the frantic pursuit of the unknown had been.

The End.