Golden hour on the downs, and the light, in a quiet spell between winter storms, is pouring through a slow eyeblink of lowering cloud over Wiltshire. Quartering low in front of me, a short-eared owl glides, filled and fringed with silver, then gold; its long paddle wings flick upwards, cream-barred with brown. It pivots on a wingtip, folds itself up, lands, misses its target and looks straight at me with goth-eyed surprise. The round plate of its face is bracketed by twin white, moonish crescents; its lantern eyes, a kohl-rimmed challenge. It raises, then lowers, its “ear” tufts, and continues hunting. Sitting on a damp, grassy anthill, I put my hand out to my side, seeking warm fur. Something is missing.
The sweetest, happiest, most biddable soul has left us: our beloved dog Kite was put down, just before her 12th birthday – a last kindness we owed her. Dad picked her out of a new year, mother/daughter double litter of 22 unplanned puppies – the product of a happy “farm accident” between the shepherd’s collie and the gamekeeper’s labradors.
