A Year to the Day

This day last year Hugo came to live in Medlar Cottage. He cried all the way in the car, two and a half harrowing hours of it, but he brightened when we arrived. I showed him the field first, because although we'd stopped for comfort breaks on the way I thought he might want to see where he could  relieve himself should he need to. Most people in strange surroundings like to know this. He stared in amazement at the green space in front of him, then as now ankle high in winter wheat. "This is where we'll walk," I told him. "This is your new world". He padded after me into the house, and during the course of the afternoon I introduced him to the different rooms. In each one he gently, tenderly raised his front paws to the windowsills and gazed out. To my knowledge he has never done this since. He followed me everywhere, nose to my tail, even to the loo. My heart ached with pity for this little chap who had no choice but to trust himself to a stranger, me. "I promise you it will be OK," I said. "We'll be fine together. You're my boy now." And so it has come to pass. I think he's happy, and I do my best to take care of him. I can't believe how much I love him. It was a happy day when I ignored my reluctance to adopt "a big whippet, black" rather than the tiny beige thing I'd envisaged, but instead heard the words "but he's a lovely person" and responded accordingly. He is a lovely person, a sweet, gentle, funny, endearing, loving little man. Happy first birthday in Medlar Cottage Hugo. I hope we can celebrate together for many years to come.