It’s not much fun being a farmer at the moment. Having just driven almost the length of England and back, from London to Cumbria to Wales and home again, I spied various placards on farm gates and fences slamming the government for the forthcoming inheritance tax changes to agricultural estates. “Rachel Reeves, Grave Robber,” said a huge banner in dribbly red letters somewhere along the M40, although half of it’s been ripped down, so the message is somewhat lost.
Meanwhile, if you’re a farmer in Devon, you’ve probably had your sheep nicked. According to one in those parts, Dartmoor has become the “Wild West” of sheep rustling and the police are doing nothing about it. That farmer, Colin Abel, reckons he’s lost £500,000 worth of stock in the past decade, or around 4,500 sheep.
I froze with guilt when I heard the plight of Mr Abel on the morning radio last week, because I happened to be in Dartmoor in August and we did have some bother with a flock of sheep. And by we, I mean myself and Dennis the young terrier. The trouble is we don’t get many sheep in Crystal Palace, but I forgot this and decided to take him for a walk on the moor. His first ever walk on the moor. It was a glorious late summer day – wispy clouds scudding across the blue sky, spongy moss and heather underfoot, the excited chirrup of warblers above us, plus a few watchful cows – and a herd of sheep.
It was only as Dennis merrily skipped towards the sheep that I realised he’d never seen any before.
“Dennis!” I shouted, as he bounded closer. “Dennis!”
Unfortunately, the sheep started moving as one, swarming down the hill towards the car park, and a main road through the moor. And Dennis, thinking this a very fine game, went after them.
“DENNIS!” I bellowed, running after him, but it did no good. The sheep ran over the road. Do you remember the Fenton video? That man screaming after his labrador in Richmond Park as he went after the deer? It wasn’t entirely dissimilar. I’m going to end up on YouTube, I thought vainly, as I stumbled after them.
Eventually, the sheep stopped, but I couldn’t see any sign of a small terrier among the gorse bushes. So I turned back to squint at the road and the car park beyond, and my heart dropped into my boots. I could just about see a man, standing there, waving both his arms at me like an air traffic controller. Dennis had presumably been hit by a car. Must have been. In just two months, I’d managed to kill my puppy.
Actually, when I got closer, I saw Dennis in the arms of another man, and he looked delighted with himself, tail wagging as if to say, “Did you see me? Did you see me nearly get those big white dogs?”
I hated him in that moment, but I was so relieved that he was safe I loved him furiously too.
“I never let my dog off up ‘ere,” said the local, handing him back to me, whereupon I stammered apologetically, very embarrassed and ashamed, saying I’d grown up in the country and I did know about dogs and sheep, but he was a puppy and needed more training (quite a lot more training), and so on.
Okay, I hadn’t flung a couple of sheep in the back of my Polo to sell on the black market, which is apparently where the rustled sheep end up, but we’d caused momentary chaos and, should the local farmer have been around, he could have been justifiably furious. He could justifiably have shot Dennis.
Cut to last week, when we were walking along the coastal path in North Wales. It’s lambing season now, and there was a warning about this for dog walkers in the local paper. Dennis was on a lead most of the time, apart from one spell along a coastal path. I’d had a good look around, and decided we were safe. No sheep to be seen for miles. Off the lead he came.
Naturally, a lone sheep appeared seconds later and Dennis went after it, only for the sheep and terrier to vanish beneath me off the cliff. Apologies to anyone else on that stretch of coastline last week who may have seen a woman weeping and crying the odd, strangulated “Dennis!” He was dead, I assumed again, because of my own stupidity. I shouldn’t have a dog. I was irresponsible and a failure, and I would never make a mother given that I couldn’t keep a small dog alive.
My sobbing suddenly halted, however, when I saw a flock hurrying towards me moments later, and a small white dot scurrying behind it. Mixed emotions at that stage, I’d say. Absolute white hot fury, and sheer relief. I flung down my rucksack, bribed Dennis back with a piece of cheese, and I can only describe the rest of our walk as “frosty”.
“Oh hello, he’s so gorgeous,” remarked a fellow walker we passed at a stile, bending down to give him a pat. Dennis, knowing he was in trouble with me, leapt all over her gratefully.
“Not today he isn’t,” I said sharply, tugging the prisoner along behind me.
What can one do with a sheep worrying dog? Given the dog population has boomed in recent years, I imagine that farmers across the country are heartily sick of visiting dogs causing chaos on their land. An anonymous source in Sussex says there’s a man down there who’ll chuck your dog in a pen for a spell with one of his rams, and they’ll emerge so terrified they’ll never look at a sheep again. Is this advisable? A friend whose dogs earned her a police record for “sheep bothering” recommends an electric collar. But these, too, are pretty controversial.
Alternatively, suggests another friend with a terrier, there’s a chap in Kent who has a website called “Sheep Proof Your Dog”. Firm training and no rams, apparently. So I’m going to book Dennis in because I’m sick of his disgraceful townie behaviour. He’s like one of those evacuee children who’d never seen a cow, and our farmers have got quite enough on their plates as it is.