I waited.  Nothing. I listened. Nothing.  Should I shout again?  I wasn’t sure.  Still there was nothing.  I was frightened.  For myself and for her.  If she was stuck and couldn’t move,  she would be in a state of frenzied panic, listening to me bawling at her.  Rarely had she disobeyed me.  Her disappearance concerned me.  The silence continued.  In the back of my mind, I knew she was highly trained.  Trained for practically any situation.  But I wasn’t.  I was just standing here shouting.

            “Hetti!  Hetti!”  My shouts failed to travel any distance, the molecules of moisture suspended in the air seemed to mop them up.  The fog was getting worse.  I could feel it getting thicker.  The air around me was practically motionless.  How I hated fog.  Usually when the weather deteriorates, it becomes a battle.  A fight against hurricane force winds trying to push you out onto the road and flat on your face.  Or a vague attempt at remaining dry when rain drops are stabbing at your clothes.  Worst of all, is the fear that sweeps across you in the wake of a thunderstorm when the hairs on the back of your neck dance about like iron filings near a magnet.  Mist can be quite enjoyable.  September and October are the best months, the beginning of Autumn.  You can sense Mother Nature beginning to take stock of what needs to be done over the winter period.  Mist gives her the cover she needs to float around and examine her workload.  With it, she breathes freshness wherever she goes.  But fog?  That’s entirely different.  Fog is a mental battle, not a physical one.  If I want to walk forward by ten paces I can.  And I can do it just as easily as if it wasn’t foggy.  No wind will blow me over, no thunderbolt from high above.  Fog makes everyone equal, for it is difficult to see, or be seen.

            I rotated ninety degrees and cupped my cold, gloveless hands to my mouth.  “Hetti!  Hetti!”  A rustling behind me, in the damp undergrowth grabbed my attention.  As I turned to listen more intently, it stopped and I realised that the movement wasn’t large or loud enough to be Hetti.  Probably a rabbit or a bird.  In this weather it was difficult to tell.

            I twisted round again, unsure of how far I’d turned when I’d heard the rustling.  I stopped where I thought ninety degrees was, from where I’d last called.  I listened carefully again, desperately searching.  I could almost hear the fog slowly drifting aimlessly about, as though it didn’t have a care in the world. I did.  Hetti was only four years old.  She had a long life ahead of her, and she was bright, obedient and enjoyed her walks.  But now I was lonely.  I felt a chill pass through me, as though a breeze has brushed against every bone.  It was the resultant shiver that frightened me.  Panic set in.  What if Hetti had had an accident?  Dogs have been known to impale themselves on sticks whilst out for a walk.  Perhaps she’d fallen down a ditch and couldn’t scramble out?  What if she were struggling to free herself from a treacherous piece of bog?  Pedigree dogs are expensive.  These days, she could have been snatched under this damp shroud.

            Those thoughts were too much.  This time I shouted with vigour.  As I drew in a deep breath the air tasted damp and earthy.  It lingered, just as the fog was lingering.  As my diaphragm pushed her name out into the wide expanse before me, my throat rasped with the effort.  It burned deeply as I swallowed several  mouthfuls of fog, in an attempt to recover from the bellow.  At the moment all I could hear were my lungs expanding and contracting, and all I desperately wanted was silence.  Silence, so I could allow my ears to scan the surrounding countryside for any sign of my beloved Hetti.

            As I moved my head like a radar, I could hear a few muscles in the back of my neck stretching, but nothing else.  I tried again, only this time I strained to hear every molecule wandering aimlessly in the air.  My eyes were scrunched tightly shut, causing the corners of my mouth to reach for my ears.  I imagine that it produced a particularly gruesome grin.

            It was a few seconds later when I heard it.  A heavy, muffled sound.  Not a graceful, delicate rustle, as a deer would make prancing through the bracken.  It was a powerful rustle as though an animal were charging through the foliage, ripping any stem or branch that failed to be brushed aside.  Soon it was bounding towards me, four padded feet smacking against the wet grass path.  The going was definitely soft as the betting pundits would say.

            “Hetti, is that you?”  I questioned excitedly.    Suddenly the fog wasn’t oppressive.  Something seemed to lift from my shoulders taking a huge burden with it.  My shoulders were light, and my ears relaxed.  I could hear the jingle of a dog tag dancing on the metal hoop of a dog’s collar.  My hopes soared.  But it wasn’t to last.  Oh how my heart ached when I realised that my search wasn’t over.  My hands were gently stroking along the spine of a long and coarsely haired dog.  As I drew them up its neck and round its ears, pricked for sound just like mine, I realised that this was a German Shepherd at my feet.  Not the soft, short haired Labrador, that was my Hetti.  I wanted to cry.  Indeed, my eyes watered.  Here I was being licked frenetically by this dog, yet I felt lonely, deserted and afraid.

            “Come along Ambrose, leave the gentleman alone.”  It was a woman’s voice, gentle but firm.  “Are you all right?” she asked as she drew nearer.

            “I’ve lost my dog”, I stammered.

            “Oh Lord. What breed is it?”

            “A Labrador.  Called Hetti.  Short for Henrietta.  It’s a good name for shouting across a park.  You know, ‘Henrietta come here this minute’.”  I was waffling with the fear that had engulfed me. “ She wandered off as they do when you give them a bit of freedom, and now I can’t seem to get her to come back to me.”

            “It doesn’t help with this fog does it?  Bit of a peasouper.  I was only saying to my neighbour, it’s been ages since we had it this thick.  Anyway, I did see a dog a few minutes ago, but it was in the bracken so I didn’t get a good look.   It seemed about the size of a Labrador, and I haven’t passed any other dog walkers, so it could be yours.”

            “Oh great!  Which way was that?”

            “You’re heading in the right direction.  Keep straight on this path.”

            “Thank you.  Thank you very much.”

            “Cheerio.”

            The relief was overwhelming.  Emotionally drained, I pushed on along the path before stopping to shout and listen, and then continuing again.  Each time I stopped and shouted I ached for this to be the time that would hear her.  But it wasn’t.  I just kept on walking.  I don’t know how far I walked.  Underfoot the path became more stony and I realised that I’d never walked this far before.  Emotionally I was torn.  I felt excited because I hoped I was on the right trail, but I was also angry because Hetti shouldn’t have wandered off like that.  I stopped and shouted again.

            “Hetti!  Hetti!”

This time she barked back.

“Hetti, is that you?”

Again, another bark.  Oh the elation.  I was ecstatic.  Suddenly I was free.  No longer trapped by this fog.  In a minute, I would see again.

            “Hetti, come here now.” I ordered, and patted my hands against my thighs in an attempt to encourage her.  I could hear her.  Hear the unmistakable sound of her running.  First one front paw, then the next, and finally both back paws together.  It wasn’t how other dogs ran.  Whenever horses run, you can hear each foot hit the ground, although there isn’t always a rhythm.  With most dogs it’s the same too, except Hetti, whose running makes her sound like a three legged dog.

            Bobbing down to greet her, I was met with several excited licks and could feel from the vibrations along her back that her tail was wagging feverishly.  She smelt musty, and trapped within her fur were several strands of bracken.

            “Where have you been?  You know you mustn’t wander off like that.”  Too relieved to seriously scold her, I was determined  not to lose her again.  With one hand on her collar, I used the other to pull her harness out of my pocket.  As I strapped it over her body I sensed her mood change.  She was on duty now.  And a Guide Dog always knows that, when they’re wearing their harness.