The poacher's companion

On Friday I moved to exclusive new premises; desirable; detached and strictly single occupancy. Well that was the plan.

A cheerful bus driver dropped me off at a crossroads a couple of miles from my gorse field as the light was fading on Friday afternoon. It was that time of the evening when the deer emerge from their daytime cover to the edges of fields and rabbits flash their white scuts. The birds are closing down but two owls were hooting mournful, wavering notes to each other. The pack was heavy with water, a couple of bottles of wine and food and I wasn't paying much attention to the road when a shiny black four wheel drive rocketed past. In it's wake it left the the tumbled body of a careless rabbit.

It was a decent size - young enough to be tender, big enough for a couple of substantial meals and I didn't waver long over the concept of a roadkill meal. I picked up the warm body and blood dripped onto my boots and jeans. Not clever; it's not like I have an inexhaustible supply of clean clothes. After some consideration, I found the big penknife in a pocket of the pack and scrambled off the road to clean the beast on a handy tree stump. Skinned, paunched and jointed it was quite pile of meat and luckily I had a clean plastic bag to carry it in.

When I emerged from the gorse tunnel, dusk had settled on the clearing and the tent was in shadow. But something seemed wrong. The solar charger was still hanging on the tent side, but the tent doorway was unzipped, and I distinctly remembered zipping it up. I bent to look inside and my eyes met an unfriendly gaze in the shadowy space. Lounging on my sleeping bag, was a motionless dog. Shreds of coloured paper indicated it had found my teatime biscuits. The dog and I looked at each other. When I inched closer it raised a lip in a grimace revealing very long, very white teeth.

I backed off to consider things and realised I had a solution in my hand. Removing a piece of rabbit from the bag I tentatively waved it in the mouth of the tent and was rewarded by a scuffle. With lightening speed the meat was seized from my hand by the passing dog which retreated to the far side of the clearing to consume its prize. Out of the gloom of the tent interior, I could see more detail. It was a small greyhound or lurcher type, long-nosed, long-legged, painfully thin.

Its blue-grey coat, the exact colour of the cats we had had in the barns at one of our many homes, was dusty and scarred, but there was a shabby elegance about the animal. He had the air of a gentleman fallen on hard times. The rabbit piece was soon consumed, bones and all and the dog showed no signs of leaving. in fact he was gazing at me expectantly, his long, slightly crooked tail waving very slowly in an ingratiating manner. I prepared to throw him another piece of my supper but he came softly towards me and took it from my hand as gently as a feather falling on water. After the second piece he seemed satisfied and lay down in that peculiarly gazehound fashion, front paws extended neatly forwards, hind legs tucked beneath body, long nose resting on fore arms.

With his steady gaze on me, and a glass of wine ito hand, I lit the gas stove and cooked the rabbit with onions, wine, courgettes and baby potatoes. It was delicious and for the first time I began to believe that this strange experience could be enriching and fun rather than a bizarre ordeal.