Dogs are allergic to chocolate, and grapes. Presumably large quantities of ripe Reblochon too. But not this dog, not Hugo. To my knowledge he's eaten a bit of chocolate, perhaps not enough to kill a normal animal but still. He's also scoffed a large semi-circle of rich French cheese with few apart from the expected consequences. And while he stayed with his new foster parents for a few hours on Thursday he gobbled up all the rotting, fermenting grapes lying on the ground from their highly prolific vine, and plenty of fresh ones too. In fact Penelope showed me how she got him to sit and give a paw by offering him a grape. When I arrived back to collect him he didn't charge at me with delight as usual, but maybe he was drunk. He looked a bit glazed. The grapes will have to stop though, and the bagful I was given to continue the treats at home will not be going to him.
Yesterday he spent the whole day with Ruth as I was working in the morning and ushering in the evening, 9am-9.30pm. He didn't settle back into his bed when I sat down to chat for a bit, and as we were leaving I discovered why. "When did he last have a walk," I asked. Around 3 she thought, maybe earlier. Whattttt? We barely got out of the door before he did what he had to do. Poor little chap, too polite to ask, or else he doesn't know how. We had a lovely long walk by flashlight when we got back, the stars bright pricks of light above us. It was hushed everywhere, apart from a few disturbed wood pigeons who ruffled their feathers and flew off crossly. Those stars, I thought as I stared, they are so far away, their light travelling through space and time to reach us. But where are they, and what is beyond them? It doesn't really bear too much thought.
Today we did a stint across the lane in St Peters for the annual event where cyclists from all over Suffolk visit as many churches as they can to raise money for these ancient buildings. You don't have to go far in Suffolk before you see a church, but some of the cyclists had been out all day and had called in at close to 30 to have their sponsorship cards signed. I was relieved by Sara from just up the lane with her two daughters and one of their friends. Her husband Rob is the cousin of my old bridge friend Julian's wife Barbara. It's like that in Suffolk. "Your daughters are absolutely beautiful," I told her unnecessarily gazing at her own dusky gorgeousness. "I wonder where they get it from?" Their father I expect, she replied with a grin, and I agreed, yeah, that'll be it. I wonder what it's like for him to look on these dark-eyed, dark-haired beauties all the time. Does it ever overwhelm him? Everyone else must look so beige, so anaemic, so plum plain by comparison. We all agreed that Hugo was lovely too, and so boosted by my association with him I turned my back on this trio of graces and sauntered back home.
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