We were gathering sheep near the Storr, high on the Trotternish ridge, when the cloud came down with visibility near to nil. Conditions soon worsened with the onset of persistent, driving rain.
Sheltering in the lee of some large rock I realised Spike was missing with only Lola left grubbing about. Spike and Lola are border collies, by the way.
There was nothing to be done. On the ascent some of the climb was extremely steep and I was in no mood to try and return that way through the swirling cloud and rain. Much too dangerous.
So I waited behind the rocks, waited some more, getting wetter, colder and more miserable by the minute pondering how strange it was that Lola was totally unperturbed by it all. She didn't seem to notice that Spike was missing never mind the cold and the wet.
But I did and was worried. What if he went over a cliff? What if the Sea Eagle spotted on the way up had grabbed him in its talons and carried him away to feed squawking, giant chicks, in a nest full of the bones of wee collie dogs? My imagination was running away very fast.
In the end discretion and valour forced me to go straight down the slope of the hill in the direction of the Haultin river and once down it was just a matter of following the water course to the start line of the gather. I halted at a quad bike left by another of the gatherers, and waited some more. After a while a man with a dog slowly appeared from the swirling mist and then there was two of us bemused by the sudden change in the weather.
Then came another dog came from behind a rise chasing some sheep and I thought it was Spike. But it was just another gatherer, this time working at what we had come so far to do. There was nothing for it but join in and we eventually managed to drive a fair sized flock of sheep down to the field by the road end.
All this time I assumed Spike would have made his way back to the Land Rover and would be sitting patiently by the rear door. And my assumption was wrong. There was no sign of the wee fellow.
There was nothing for it but to go back up the hill, soaked through and cold, whistling and calling. I eventually reached the area where I had last seen him and was searching through the rock under some cliffs for signs of his lifeless body, still calling.
And then he materialised by my side, looking a bit sheepish but otherwise fine, like he had found a warm, dry, den and had a good sleep.
