There are bastards on the Downs at dusk

They won't hurt, said the horrible woman.

One of them ate Frank, while the other watched.

He spat him out because a six-month-old whippet isn't even big enough to count as a meaningful snack to Great Danes. Or because Frank had farted. Or because he was choking on Frank's body warmer.

It definitely wasn't because of me or the distant, largely disinterested owners.

I panicked and bellowed at them. Control your dogs please, they are eating mine.

Don't worry, they won't hurt you.

It occurred to me they may not even be able to see Frank from where they were. It was dusk, and the speaker had her back to me.

It's not me I'm worried about, I said, semi accurately.

Frank remained pinned to the ground, whimpering, contemplating his short life.

Later, as we hid over the other side of a hill, our hear rates decreasing, Frank wined at the silhouettes of two sharp corner roadsigns in the distance, which looked to both of us like the same Great Danes, after eating their own heads.

I inspected his injuries. A nick to the ear, all told. But can one really measure the psycological scars? Mine or his.

Although it was dark we went to the wreck in search of friendly hounds and confidence.

I told the first owner, whose name I do not know so we will have to call him Oscar, of our ordeal.

Beware of the bastards on the Downs with unruly dogs, he growled, through the night. I've stopped taking my Japanese Fighting Dog up there, altogether.