Foxglove

Past the sleeping church and the allotments, the sheep fields full of ewes and lambs, the track took us to the more private places that we love so well.

Here rabbits fed in the crops, eating out semicircles close by their warrens, and the dog looked at me for permission to go. The wheat was not yet in head, though it would not be long, and once that stage is reached, a dog can do some damage.

So, mindful of the farmer's livelihood, I call her back, knowing also that the next few fields would be suitable to allow her free rein. Rabbits slick and dark with dew run out of the wheat as we approach, lining up to ping over the rabbit-fencing that was supposed to stop them.

Rabbit-fencing has to be higher and dug in deeper than you might imagine, if it is truly to keep the rabbits out. We cross the ditch, and after checking that it is safe, I send the dog forward.

Here she can do no damage except to rabbits, and I can watch her at her work, the job she loves and the reason for her existence. There are rabbits of all sizes and ages hiding in the long weeds and grass, and the landowner does not want any of them.

It is more difficult for a dog to catch in a place where there are many rabbits, and it takes experience for one to settle on a single quarry and ignore the scampering and scent of the others.

But she has that experience, and presently has the first rabbit, too, giving me a less than textbook retrieve as she wants to be off again after the next one. I don't mind that, and she is off again as soon as I have my hand on the caught rabbit, this time to lift one from behind a tussock where it thought it was safe.

I take this from her and she is away again, this time with a thrilling sprint, twisting and turning in her length as the rabbit turns in its own, aiming for safety in the hedge and ditch.

Mud and water spray behind her as she skids round after the rabbit, her jaws clopping together on nothing as it flattens before her strike. A fine rabbit that deserves to get away, as indeed it does, and the dog returns to me panting, looking for the next one.

By the time we are back in the arable fields, she is well-exercised and I am carrying enough rabbits. I pause to hock them and thread them on the rope I bring for this purpose, so that I may sling them across my shoulders for easier transport, and I see the dog has gone on point right at the edge of the crop.

She stands on three legs, her ears twitching to pick up sound and her nose turning while she blows scent out of the corners of her mouth. She is unsure. Suddenly she jumps backwards and runs to me, and I hear a dry 'chak' where she was.

Rapid steps take me there and I smell a familiar scent: ferret! That is why she would not touch the creature, for she works with ferrets and has been trained to leave them.

Someone has lost a ferret. This is the time of year when ferrets are breeding, and they are great escapers when they have the urge to mate. Ferrets rarely survive for long once out, and I try to find this one, though it would be a problem carrying it back, as I am ill-equipped to confine a struggling ferret that I have never met before, especially with my hands smelling strongly of rabbit.

However, the ferret is away, and we cannot find it, only the strong smell that it has left behind, quite different from that of stoat, weasel or even badger, all ferret relatives.

The sun is climbing now, and it is nearly time for me to get up, except that I already am. We take the track that will bring us on to the main path, dog at heel with tail high and happy, and me with eight rabbits that are getting heavy enough on the road home.

First published in the West Sussex Gazette June 18