Today she enjoys the stimulation of the proximity of danger. Of fear managed. She runs on, and has gone only a little farther when she becomes aware of voices. Though muffled by the mist, they are clearly raised, angry voices. Slowing her pace she peers into the gloom. She has never encountered anyone on her early morning circuits of the lake. The voices are coming from the field to her left. She can discern two men, both cursing, but not, she thinks, at each other. A sudden yelp reveals the target of their rage. Tilda reaches the patchy hedge and clambers more through than over it in time to see the taller of the youths land a second hefty kick on the skinny gray dog with scruffy hair that cowers on the ground in front of him.

‘Oy!’ she shouts before she has time to think of the wisdom of confronting two angry strangers when she is alone. ‘Stop that! Leave the poor thing alone.’

The men look up and see Tilda as she emerges from the mist. Her appearance startles them, and for a brief moment they stare, but are quickly over their surprise.

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ the shorter one growls.

As she gets closer to the dog, Tilda can see a trickle of blood coming from its mouth. It is shaking with fear but unable to run away, as one of the men has hold of a chain that is fastened around the dog’s neck.

‘Why are you hurting her? What has she done that is so terrible?’

‘She’s useless,’ the dog’s tormenter tells Tilda. ‘She won’t do her job.’

‘Her job?’

The men exchange glances and Tilda realizes whatever activity they are engaged in is probably without the landowner’s permission.

‘Were you after foxes?’ she asks, though she knows this can’t be right.

‘Huh!’ the shorter man sneers, ‘this thing couldn’t catch a cold, never mind a fox.’

‘She’s a lurcher,’ the other youth points out, as if this explains anything. When Tilda remains blank he goes on. ‘She’s supposed to catch hares.’

‘Hares. But … why?’

At this both men lose their patience. ‘Look,’ says the nearest one, ‘it’s none of your business, okay? You don’t know about dogs.’

‘I know you don’t teach them anything by kicking their teeth out,’ she says, putting her hands on her hips.

The taller man yanks on the dog’s chain, forcing it to stagger to its unsteady feet. ‘Come on,’ he says to his companion, ‘let’s go. Stupid bitch!’ he spits, and Tilda can’t be sure if he is addressing the dog or her. The poor animal glances back as it is dragged away. It is still bleeding from the kick to its mouth, and also has a pronounced limp. The sight of its suffering is too much for Tilda.