Michael O’Loughlin

Then silence.

For a few days, there were no more sightings.

Meanwhile, my wife and I were marooned on Paros.

All the flights and ferries were booked out as it was a bank holiday weekend.

We finally managed to hustle our way onto the last wildly expensive cabin on a ferry to Athens.

It was, appropriately, a cabin designed for people with dogs, and we couldn't help but contrast the luxury of the fittings with what we imagined Kumo was experiencing on the cold Dublin hillsides.

Soon I found myself standing on Ticknock at five in the morning, calling his name, as the dawn chorus started up and the woods were alive with rabbits, fox and deer.

I stood there looking around the hills, trying to imagine where he was going, what was he thinking.

We were heading home to rest when a phone pinged.

Someone had posted on social media that they had seen a dog answering Kumo's description at two in the morning, running along the road, leading up to Johnny Fox's pub in Glen Cullen.

We rushed to the area and scoured the outhouses and woods.

We knocked on every door along the road and handed out flyers.

It was raining heavily, which I felt worked in our favour.

Kumo hates the rain, seeing it as a personal affront, causing him both bodily and emotional pain.

So wherever he was, I was sure he was holed up there, waiting for it to pass.

We had regrouped at Johnny Fox's for coffee when the phone call came.

A lady walking her dog on a nearby hill had seen the poster.

And when she spotted a small black and white dog huddling under a bush in the rain, she knew it was him.

We rushed up to the spot and there he was, soaked but seemingly unsurprised to see us.

There were tears of joy.