I awoke early one morning, with a vague sense of increasing unease, to the sharp, insistent barks of our first, feisty Antiguan Chihuahua mix, faintly audible in the deep gloom below the rumbling rains ramming the galvanised gabled roof. Through the glistening glass, peering out into the cold murk for any sinister signs of strange intruders, I could make out the angry winds lashing the group of giant neem trees, their big branches flailing desperately to ward off the blows in the gathering gale, as the outer bands of the passing hurricane slammed screaming into the island.
Sheets of water steadily seeped in under the doors as the storm smacked all sides of the building. I stumbled through the house, groggy and concerned, to find sweet-natured Crix out of his basket, straining on his temporary leash, still barking in this his maiden squall and standing wet and