Mr Dog and a Hedge Called Hog. Ben Fogle

an hour later, as it was starting to get dark, he reached the steep hillside that the hare had described. Trotting to the top, he found a large stretch of grassland sloping away from him, lined with long, tangled rows of bushes.

      ‘Time to investigate,’ he panted, and sniffed his way along the old, gnarled hedgerow. Many scents caught in his nostrils – honeysuckle, harvest mice, hawthorn … and HEDGEHOG! Yes, thought Mr Dog with growing excitement. It was the same smell he’d noticed in Lizzie Toddy’s crates. And with night falling, the hedgies would be waking up.

      Mr Dog searched about more carefully. He found a pile of damp leaves and twigs, but the long grass tickled his nose and made him sneeze.

      ‘EEK!’ the leaves seemed to squeal and Mr Dog jumped back in surprise.

      ‘Hello?’ He got down on his belly and crawled a little closer. ‘Anyone there?’

      ‘No,’ came a quivering voice.

      ‘Oh.’ Mr Dog frowned and cocked his head. ‘Are you sure no one’s there?’

      ‘Definitely not!’ said the shaky voice. ‘No hedgehogs here. Only a hedge.’

      Mr Dog couldn’t help but smile. ‘So, I’m talking to a hedge?’

      ‘Yes, you are, and the hedge isn’t talking back to you,’ the voice said. ‘So there.’

      ‘Is that so?’ Mr Dog replied. ‘Well, thank you for letting me know.’

      ‘You’re welcome.’

      ‘I’m welcome? In that case, I’ll come back!’ Mr Dog eagerly pushed his head back under the bushes. ‘Hello!’

      ‘EEK!’ came the squeal again.

      ‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ said Mr Dog. ‘Tell me, does this hedge have a name?’

      ‘Hog,’ came the little voice.

      ‘A hedge called Hog, eh?’ Mr Dog grinned. ‘You know, I think it’s more likely you’re a hog called Hedge!’

      ‘No! My name is Hog, honest …’ In the twilight, Mr Dog saw a little black nose push out from the leaves. Two beady black eyes and a spiky fringe followed close behind. Before he knew it, Mr Dog was snout to snout with a young hedgehog!

      ‘EEP!’ Hog’s eyes widened with alarm and, in a heartbeat, he rolled himself up into a spiky ball.

      Mr Dog blinked. ‘Goodness, I wish I could do a trick like that. Although then I suppose I’d have to call myself Mr Hog instead of Mr Dog.’

      ‘Whoever you are, you’re scary,’ said Hog, trembling.

      ‘Hairy, yes. Scary, never,’ said Mr Dog. ‘The D-O-G in my name stands for Delightful Old Gentleman! Well, probably.’

      ‘My mum told me about dogs!’ Hog’s quills quivered as he spoke. ‘She told me that the two-legged giants take sniffy dogs and go hunting for hedgies.’

      ‘I think you mean “sniffer” dogs,’ said Mr Dog.

      ‘The sniffing sniffy sniffer dogs sniff us out, and the giants sweep sticks through the long grass and poke us hedgies into the open.’ Hog gave a long, snuffling sigh. ‘And we’re never seen again.’

      ‘What a terrible story! Wait.’ Mr Dog reversed out from under the hedgerow and sniffed the air. ‘I can smell something …’

      ‘Maybe it’s an escaping hedgehog!’ Hog squealed and beetled away along the side of the hedgerow, heading down the hillside. ‘Goodbye, scary dog! I’m off!’

      ‘Hog, come back!’ It had grown dark, but Mr Dog’s senses were keen. His nose was filling with wet, animal smells. At the same time, he saw bright lights bobbing up the hill towards him, the same way he’d come. There were noises too: a thumping, crashing sound and excited yelps. Hounds – and lots of them.

      ‘Good boy, Dandy!’ Mrs Maitland’s voice carried through the darkness. ‘Have you found one? Found a hedgehog for us …?’

      ‘Oh, dear!’ Mr Dog ran down the hill after the little hedgehog as the crashing got closer. ‘The hunt is coming, Hog – and I’m afraid they’re hunting you!’