Although the air is mild for the time of year, the sky is iron-blue, threatening another downpour. It is wet and muddy under foot, slippery too. Charcoal and murky-brown, dead leaves clot the woodland path. There is the breath of tannin; I can almost taste it. Two grey squirrels chase each other over rotten logs, then dash up a tree strangled by ivy. A blackbird skitters into some bushes. I call my jack russell, Roob, who is loitering behind, sniffing new scents; this isn’t our usual walk. She doesn’t appear.
I retrace my steps, calling again, scanning through perished bracken and withered nettles. I smell ghostly flowers and wizened rosehips. There are tangled brambles, bitter-black berries and bare trees. A gust of wind rattles their branches; they creak and moan in protest. Then I hear her, growling at something near a holly bush.
Next second, there is a feral flurry of alarm; jumping and squealing, a frenzy of spasmodic attacks. Stringy scarlet saliva is dripping from her mouth all over her muzzle; front paws and legs are pin-cushioned with blood.
As I yank her collar, trying to drag her away, she snaps. A young man, walking his spaniel, stops to help me. Roob whines and yaps, tugs and pulls, but he holds firm, putting her on the lead as I examine her. No real harm done.
It’s then that I see it: a ball curled tightly in the mulch. Tentatively, with a gloved hand, I roll it towards me. No wonder the hibernating hedgehog’s spines keep most predators away; it’s like touching surgical needles. I’m relieved to see the prickles lift ever so gently, a breathing reflex, showing that the hedgehog is alive and unharmed. Gingerly, I push it under the bush, cover it with leaf litter.
I thank the man. “Don’t let her down a badger sett,” he says, pointing into the distance. “One nearly ripped off my dog’s nose.” I assure him I won’t, and decide to go home; it is starting to rain.
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