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
