Bohemia Village Voice

The dog was ordinary, medium-sized, a nondescript tan colour and with a floppy ear. Yet someone loved him, for he wore a collar and was sleek and well-fed. He had winning eyes, a sloppy grin and a tail that wagged constantly.
 He stood on the path, his head cocked to one side as he watched me approach. Thunder and lightning presaged a storm as I hurried through the woods, but I had to stop and greet the fellow.
 ‘Hello, old chap,’ I said, stroking his head. ‘Where’s your master, then?’
 He whimpered at a crash of thunder. I made to move on down the path and he changed, suddenly in front of me, growling.
 ‘Hey!’ He would not move and countered each of mine. I was getting annoyed when a bolt of lightning hit a tree twenty yards along the path. The giant toppled and I dived for cover.
 After the commotion, I turned to the dog. He was gone. Spooked, I thought. Still, he saved my life.
 Rain was falling when I reached the country inn where I had booked a room. Seated at the bar with a pint of ale, I recounted the story of the dog to the friendly landlord. He regarded me with suspicion.
 ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
 ‘You just described Ted Bannister’s dog, Gypsy,’ he said softly. ‘They were both killed by a falling tree last year.’
 I gaped.
 ‘Aye, were a storm much like this,’ he added thoughtfully.