The moonlight hunt

Pippin sees off an intruder and spring comes to Dumfriesshire

- Jamie Blackett

BLOODY dog!' The door was only inches ajar, but give Pippin an inch and she can be a mile away before you can say, well, 'Bloody dog!' "Take the treats,' says the Dog Whisperer helpfully, as an oblique way of telling me that it is a man's job to go stumbling across the beach in the dark looking for a sand-colored dog not much bigger than a loaf of bread.

In the distance, we can hear her barking. Otters, badgers, foxes, roe deer, and rabbits frequent the shore when no one is around. If they don't trigger Pippin, there are always the waders piping in one direction, the owls screeching in the other, and, failing them, the moon's reflection in the rockpools.

Once the barking starts, the echoing cliffs ensure another disputatious terrier materialises to play verbal ping pong. This can go on well into the night, interspersed with staccato panting noises as she sprints across the sand to patrol the other end of the bay. Irake the beach with torchlight in the hope of picking up her eyes. Sometimes, I can fix her in the beam and capture her by walking toward her. I can just see her bouncing up and down as she barks at something far off.