@hugoandursula: Four years of Free Hugs, and without really noticing it, I’ve been watching Huxley grow older right in front of me. When we started, he was three. Bright ginger, young, endlessly enthusiastic and somehow convinced that every person walking towards him was coming specifically to see him. Now he’s seven. He’s slower. Softer. His face is almost completely white. And when I look back through all these years of footage, I like to imagine that perhaps it wasn’t time that turned him white at all. Perhaps it was people. One white hair for every child who screamed with excitement when they saw him. One for every sigh of relief as somebody buried their face into his fur. One for every laugh. Every tear. Every enormous smile from across the street. Every “I needed this today.” Every person who crouched beside him because they were happy, and every person who crouched beside him because they weren’t. Every hand that reached down for a quick stroke and stayed a little longer than it meant to. Every person who told us about the dog they had growing up. The one waiting at home. The one they still miss. He’s felt people shake with laughter. He’s sat quietly while people cried. He’s been squeezed, kissed, whispered to, thanked and sometimes simply held. Children. Grandparents. People celebrating. People grieving. People who were lonely. People who were ill. People rushing somewhere. People who just stopped for a moment. Winter mornings. Summer evenings. Rainy streets. Busy stations. Thousands of different people carrying thousands of different things. Huxley doesn’t know any of that. He doesn’t know their names or their stories. He doesn’t know whether they’re having the best day of their life or one of the hardest. He just knows that someone has opened their arms. And sometimes I wonder whether dogs absorb a tiny piece of every person who loves them. Perhaps every kiss turned one hair white. Every cuddle left another. Every laugh, tear, sigh of relief and little piece of somebody that he carried for a moment left its mark. Until eventually, all those moments became visible. Maybe Huxley isn’t going grey. Maybe he’s just full. Full of people. Full of feelings. Full of thousands of tiny moments of being trusted with whatever somebody happened to be carrying that day. Four years ago, I thought I was filming Huxley giving hugs. I didn’t realise I was filming time. And what a beautiful way to grow older.

Ursula

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Sunday 27 September 2026 16:16:48 GMT