The hunt


“Anything yet, Trev?”

“Not yet, but…”

“But what?”

“Hang on a minute! I’m not noticing you doing any serious looking. Do you expect me to do everything?”

“It’s more your thing, though, isn’t it?”


“You’re a hunting dog. You hunt for things to kill and stuff. I’m a sheepdog. I was bred to round up sheep. I don’t need to sniff them out – I can see them and hear them. I then use my, dare I say not inconsiderable skill set to keep them together and safe or to move them to where they’re needed. That hardly equips me to sniff out clues on a treasure hunt!”

“Two things, Eos. One: I am a terrier, from the Latin terra which means earth. The original French name, chien terrier literally means earth dog—”

“If I can just interrupt for a second; if earth in earth dog is the same as plastic in plastic bag, then I’m afraid you are, as the humans like to say, barking up the wrong tree—”

“Well it doesn’t mean that, smarty-pants; it means simply that the earth, or soil if you prefer, is my milieu, my medium if you will.”

“And if I won’t?”

“Tough. I was bred to dig out burrowing animals: foxes, rabbits and so on. Now. Thinking cap on, Eos; although I know this sort of thing doesn’t come easily to you; what do you suppose happens to the nostrils of a dog that’s digging out foxholes?”

“You close them.”

“We try, but it’s not absolutely airtight. And that means?”

“You get mud up your nose.”

“I get mud up my nose. Well done. Now here’s the stinger. What do you suppose a nose full of mud does for the sense of smell?”

“You don’t have to talk to me as though I’m stupid, you know.”

“Then prove it by answering. What do you suppose a nose full of mud does for the sense of smell?”

“I suppose it stops it from working effectively.”

“You suppose right, my hairy friend. So that means I’m not adapted for sniffing things out in the way a bloodhound or any other scent hounds are. In fact, my olfactory response is no more sensitive than, say, A SHEEPDOG’S!”

“What are you saying to me, Trevor?”

“I’m merely proposing that you should pull your weight. Help me look for the next clue. The last one led us here and said but the writing isn’t always on the wall. What do you suppose that meant?”

“No idea, mate.”


“I am doing, but I’m not bred for thinking You need an intelligent breed for that: perhaps a German Shepherd or a Lab or, I don’t know, maybe a Jack flipping Russell.”

“Shut up. I’m thinking.”

“Try not to overdo it, Trev. You aren’t as young as you used to be.”

“Hmm. The writing isn’t always on the wall. Okay. If not on the wall, then where? I’m going to look at some trees, Eos. You stay here.”

“Okay, Trev. I’ll see if there’s anything in that writing on the pathway.”

“What writing on the pathway?”

“Over there. Look.”

“Anything else?”

“It looks like part of the K is pointing to a bit of paper.”

“THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT! I’ll bet the piece of paper has the next clue on it. Eos, you’re a genius.”

“I’m glad you’ve recognised it at last. Does that mean I get first choice on the sweeties when we get home?”


“Why not?”

“Because you are Dad’s faithful companion and I’m Mummy’s special little boy.”


“And Mummy hands out the sweeties. The best you’ll get from Dad is what he calls touch reward.”


“Good plan. Mark the spot. On three. One… two… three… and strain.” 

This was written in response to Kreative Kue 317 published on this site.


10 thoughts on “The hunt

        1. Trevor has never liked sharing a home with any dog. He is a people dog – sometimes I don’t think he even realises he is a dog himself! He gets away with it because he’s 15 now and doesn’t have too many years left. Eos is a mere child – she’s only thirteen!


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