After Hours

Driving to our woodland walk yesterday we came across a mother duck shepherding half a dozen babies across the lane outside the Old Rectory. I halted to let them through, and Hugo stuck his head out of the open window, licking his lips as he watched them waddle past. We had to get our walk in early as he was spending another few hours at Ruth's. It felt strange dropping him off and going to work - took me back 30 years and some, that sudden lightness combined with a lurching wrench of concern. But he was fine according to his minder, and only whimpered a little as he stared wistfully at the spot where he had last seen me. The reunion is the most gratifying part, as it always was, though he didn't fall over himself to give me an account of his day. Later, with Kitty now on board, we took ourselves off to The Pumphouse to see the wonderful, hilarious Keiran Hodgson preview his new show as part of the Aldeburgh Festival. We met his partner Stuart, and afterwards had drinks with the pair of them while Hugo joined us from the car. But why was he crying gently on the way home, mildly agitated and disgruntled? The penny didn't drop until I woke the next morning with a sudden surge of guilt. This dog is a professional sleeper, whose day ends before I put my dinner on the table. He has to drag himself awake to join me wherever I convene after I've eaten - the summerhouse with the crossword maybe, or the garden room with a book, perhaps the sitting room for some TV. I was expecting him to enjoy socialising until midnight when we finally said goodnight to the men. Poor little boy. Good dog. Sit!