July 2022 -- Not quite a 'fluffy kitten' story but it's close

We saw a whippet the other day at Newbiggin by the Sea disappear into a hole he'd dug in the sand and it kinda reminded me of this story which I humbly offer to anyone who would like the hell outa here!!!

Mungo’s Hole

A dull Winter’s day on a familiar windy beach is not the place one thinks of for the spectacular to occur. And certainly Joe had no expectations of the day; porridge for breakfast, sandwich for lunch walking the dog, the usual Monday leftovers bubbled and squeaked. He reflected on the down side of being a dog owner as he got blown along the beach in a northerly gale.

Mungo ran ahead, stopped and began digging in his favourite spot. It was a mystery to Joe why he did this but, if it kept him happy. Joe sat on a rock and dug his gloved hands deep into his pockets. It was starting to sleet.

Why hadn’t anything exciting ever happened to him? 
What happened about that millionaire lifestyle, glamorous girlfriends, fast car? 
Where was his dream job, his winning ticket?
How had his life collapsed into this – retirement nothing?
Bloody dog. Bloody January. Bloody wind.

After what he considered sufficient digging time, he got up, pulled his hood over his woollen hat, happed his long scarf closer around him and prepared to turn into the razor sharp, sand-blasting wind for the trudge back, and he whistled for Mungo to follow him. Only Mungo had disappeared completely in the sand.
“Mun-go!” the last syllable climbed into the wind and was whipped away by whatever universal forces. “Mungo!” he barked sharply.
Nothing for it then, but go fetch him and put him on the leash. But when he got to where Mungo was – Mungo wasn’t.
There was a hole. A huge hole. A bigger-than-Mungo-could’ve-dug-in-a-lifetime hole, but no Mungo.
“Mungo?” Joe peered into the hole.
There was no sign of the dog and the depths of the hole looked bright, bright and bottomless. Unfathomable.
Joe wandered up and down the beach, the dunes, the rocks, calling, whistling, calling. Eventually he went back and looked down the bright hole and sat a while at the edge with his feet dangling over the side, wondering whether to commit. But the tide was turning and where the hole was, would soon be covered by the sea, and he had to do something.
Who do you phone about a bright hole and a disappeared Staffordshire terrier?

“Can you take us to exactly where this hole is, sir?” asked the police.
“Are you quite sure your dog was still in there?” asked the fire service.
“Is it a hazard to the public at large?” asked the environmental agency.

Yes, yes and yes.

As they questioned, the tide was encroaching.

By the time they all met up at the hole, the sea was streaming into it like a huge waterfall with rainbows forming at it’s top, lifting spray high into the air. They cordoned it off. The hole was investigated, as far as it could be investigated. It was indeed bright when the tide was out and seemingly bottomless, and that was that until some days later and the phone call came. Soon after, the press arrived at Joe’s door, cameras, flash photography, the lot – and Joe was still in his pyjamas. This was not the moment of fame he had envisaged.

“New Zealand, yes.” FLASH! “Apparently some fishermen.” FLASH! “Yes, I’ll be flying to Dunedin as soon as I” FLASH! “No – he was just digging. He likes digging.” FLASH! “Of course. Tremendously exciting.” FLASH!

Joe was all over the news – in his pyjamas. The headlines didn’t mention Joe, however.

MUNGO’S JOURNEY THROUGH THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH
Cornwall to New Zealand in a flash! 
HOLEY MOLEY – Dog Gone Amazing.

After that the phone didn’t stop ringing. Morning TV. Chat shows. Radio interviews. Dog food companies – they all wanted a piece of the action – offered to pay his fare to New Zealand, first class of course, for an exclusive photo shot of the reunion. Joe turned a lot of them down – unless there was mention of money of course. And after all, he had to conserve his energy for a very long trip!

Mungo, in the meantime, a little confused but no worse for the wear, was being utterly spoiled by his hosts and he didn’t turn down any offers. He had mysteriously appeared atop a water spout south of South Island, was rescued by some fishermen who took him to Dunedin where he became the centre of attention.

The water spout appeared with tidal regularity and, now the hole was of real interest to science, the entire beach was cordoned off. There was even talk of militarising PROJECT MUNGO as it was now called. According to financial forecasts

“This could be one of the most exciting transport systems ever discovered.”

It was a potential goldmine. People were already buying tickets to be first through Mungo’s Hole. And maybe there were other such places worldwide just waiting to be discovered.

As he packed, Joe was thinking how he could have done without all this excitement at his age, let alone having to traipse all the way round the world. Well, whatever happened, from now on Mungo was staying on the lead. No more digging.
Bloody media! Bloody dog!
Still, there was a bright side. At least it was Summer in New Zealand. He hoped it wouldn’t be too hot. He wondered what sort of food they ate there? Maybe he’d like it. Maybe they’d stay!

Joe got to thinking on the long flight. How strange, a day with so little going for it, can turn from a familiar walk on a windy beach, to a conduit to the other side of the world. To have unearthed something so mysterious, something so undefined, was a miracle but perhaps not the miracle it seemed. Joe found he didn’t want fame, money, fast cars or women. And if this was excitement he wasn’t in any danger of liking that either. No. He just wanted Mungo back.

The End