Worst case scenario

M and I continued our walk along the canalside path, enjoying the quiet countryside while the dogs cooled off in the canal. The dogs were a funny pair - M referred to them individually as "Brains" and "Brawn" which was appropriate and anyone would instantly know which was which from their build. Despite being twin brothers, they are fine examples of the difference slight genetic alterations can make. Gideon is lithe, bright and attentive, while George is stocky, brash and slightly arrogant.

The difference was also apparent in their approach to the canal. Gideon was more than happy to dive headlong into the canal after a stick, while George paddled near the bank, waiting to steal the returned stick and crunch it into tiny, unthrowable pieces. On the surface it seemed obvious which was Top Dog, but who can say which is more likely to lead - the military commander with all his might behind him, or the wiley politician with his intelligence and cunning?

It was during one of George's unusual forays into the depths of the canal that a boat came along. We watched as George did the sensible thing, retreating to the bank opposite and waiting beneath the trees for the boat to pass. We exchanged hearty hellos with the collected company on the boat and started up the path again.

It became quickly apparent that we were walking with just one dog. Gideon happily bounded along with us, carrying his stick and dripping canal water, but George was nowhere to be seen. As the boat puttered off into the distance, we returned to the spot where our paths had crossed and called out for George. On the first few calls, there was some splashing from under the trees. I pointed out the last place I thought he'd been, out of sight under the low-lying leafy branches of a massive horse chestnut tree.

A few whistles later and nothing, not a sound. We waited for a minute, two, another, but still nothing. M tried in vain to encourage Gideon to find his brother, and we were blocked from investigating by the ten metres of cold murky water that separated the banks.

It was now that something odd happened. M was obviously starting to worry about his dog, and it was contagious. Maybe it was the weed, or how out-of-character it seemed, but I found his next statement quite amusing.

He said "I think he's got stuck in the mud with his head in the water and is drowning!"

Unfortunately, I couldn't stifle a giggle, which I thought was quite rude but I'm sure he didn't take offence. I didn't even try to hold back my surprise at his unusual paranoia and tried to offer a more likely explanation, like "He's probabaly chasing a rabbit" or "Maybe he's found some lovely fox shit to roll in."

This seemed to set his mind at rest a little, and we started off along the canal again, hoping to meet up with the wayward hound.

And lo! Two minutes later, George came scampering along our side of the canal, panting away, and shook-off a coatful of water. With a sigh of relief, we took up our walk home.

I don't want to make too much of this - just know it amused me greatly. And know, M, that you're going to make a great father.