Budding

Hugo was sick again at bedtime, and he looked so sad and pathetic that I felt worried leaving him to go upstairs. I cuddled his little body and thought again how precious he is to me. So hopefully that will teach me to close the larder door firmly every night, not just nearly every night. Friends have suggested a strong magnet, and that's what I will get. So I was delighted to be greeted by a whitling, wagging, licking mass of muscle this morning, and I thought his woes were over. He had his breakfast as normal, and then we had our walk. But after lunch we went out into the garden for a romp, and he tore around madly, bursting with energy he couldn't contain. I didn't discourage him - why would I? - but a short while later his entire breakfast surfaced. I cancelled a farewell tea I was due to attend in Aldeburgh (not mine, I ain't going nowhere) and kept a close eye on him. He settled in the conservatory, and I began to pick up leaves in a desultory fashion. But suddenly I was hooked, and before two hours were up I had mown the lawn with the ride-on, and the perimeter with the Black and Decker, I'd clipped all the edges back to make a smart finish, and mostly pruned the roses. Oh the happiness of seeing everything coming to life, so quickly and so lushly. Shrubs are budding furiously, and I decided for once to ignore the weeds that are doing the same. The joy is really unexpressable (sic) in words, but the sensation is of an airy space in the body, the lungs expanding, and the head filled with light. Everything feels open and receptive. The face smiles uncontrollably. It's like reciprocated love.