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My preferred dog was Thistle, a black Patterdale-Jack Russell cross. She was a canine Houdini, in some way handling to get away from areas we believed entirely protected. And she would likewise — I’d never ever seen this in a dog prior to then — climb trees in pursuit of squirrels, or simply for the delight of it.
Then, one day, I discovered her in a neighbour’s field. Standing beside a sheep whose throat she had actually torn open. Grotesquely, the passing away sheep was likewise standing, as if transfixed in shock. Another of Thistle’s victims lay dead next to it. Thistle came near me, wagging her tail, and putting her paws on my knees in the method she constantly did. I wept. Then called my neighbour to explain what had
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