He didn't even know his own name.

We'd had him for less than three hours.

A Labrador — the dog I'd wanted all my life.

Two years old, a "part-trained gun dog".

Walks well on the lead. Sits. Stays. Comes back when called.

That's what we were told, but he didn't even know his own name!

Andy and I had never had the room before. We worked long hours, and a dog always felt just out of reach. Then we moved. We had land. Andy started working for himself. At last, it felt like life had made space for it.

Then I saw him on Pets4Homes, only a few miles away.

It felt like fate.

We called him Jack that day.

Looking back, the fact he'd never had a name should have set off alarms. At the time, I didn't see it. I was too excited.

After tea, it was already dark. Andy was in the garage, finishing a kennel he'd been building. I clipped the lead onto Jack's collar and took him out to see what Andy was up to.

As we stepped into the garage, my elbow caught something.....

It hit the floor with a clatter.

Jack jumped back.

His collar slipped clean over his head.

And in seconds, he was gone.

Out of the garage.Across the yard.Into the field. Straight into the darkness.

Then came the silence.

That's when the fear landed in my chest.

He didn't know where home was.He didn't know his name.He didn't know us.

And we'd just watched him vanish into the night.

We grabbed torches and ran.

We shouted his brand-new name into black fields. Neighbours came out, one after another, ready to help. Facebook posts went up. Before long, it felt like half of Goxhill and Barrow had turned up to search.

Every so often, we'd catch a pale flash in the torchlight.

Was it Jack?Was it a fox?

We couldn't tell.

Midnight passed. Then more hours.

After six hours, we had to stop and go inside. I cried on and off all night. At one point, I thought,"No wonder I never had children. I can't even keep a dog safe."

At first light, about 6:30am, I went into the back bedroom and looked out over the field. The Christmas trees were tiny back then.

Something moved.

There he was.

Right in the middle of the field, alone, scanning the world like he didn't know what to do next.

I yelled for Andy.

He shot out of bed, pulled on his wellies — and nothing else — and ran up the field in his pants. (The neighbours didn't need that view at sunrise.)

Jack bolted again, heading towards Barrow, then towards New Holland.

Still, people turned up. Again.

Alison and Jonathan Nettleton came, along with local farmers and experienced gun dog handlers. They stayed calm and steady. They brought their own trained dogs and used them to gently guide Jack back, step by step.

By midday, about ten of us formed a wide circle in someone's back garden between New Holland and Barrow and slowly closed in.

Jack was shattered. Frightened. In the end, he stopped running.

When we finally got hold of him, he didn't fight. His paws were red and sore from hours of sprinting. He shook in our arms while we settled him into the car.

We'd had him for less than 24 hours.

That night changed me.

I understand the panic when a dog runs.I understand the sick feeling in your stomach.I know how fast an ordinary moment can turn into a nightmare.

Before Sid.Before Holly.Before Tails in the Trees.

There was Jack.

I'll share more about him another time.

But if you were one of the people who came out with a torch that night — thank you. We never forgot.

And if you've ever had a heart-stopping moment with a dog… tell me I'm not the only one. 🐾