He comes running towards me, as if he’s excited too, even though I know he hasn’t understood a word I’ve said. I cave instantly and give him a biscuit.

‘I’m proud of us. You’ve been such a good boy on this walk and I’ve …’ What have I done? Hugo runs off, no longer interested now that the snacks are gone. ‘Well, I haven’t actually done anything yet, but I’m going to. And that’s a step in the right direction.’ I start walking again.

‘You gotta hold me accountable, OK, bud?’ I look at Hugo.

He’s gone oddly still.

‘Bud, you OK?’

I look around, searching for what he can see, and immediately regret letting my guard down and feeling confident in my dog-handling skills. I bet the little shit knew this was coming. I bet he used the whole walk to lull me into a false sense of security and confidence. Just for this moment. Right when I’m feeling all buoyant and self-assured.

There are three things that make Hugo crazy – his doggy kryptonite – and the sight before us, a girl’s teddy bear picnic-themed sixth birthday party, has all of them. In less than two seconds I can see a vast quantity of other dogs, food and large cuddly toys. In this case, by ‘toys’ I mean many, many teddy bears and a beautiful, white, ride-on unicorn, with the birthday bow still attached. I should not have walked into the playground. Going to the playground on a weekend is a terrible idea.

‘Oh shit.’ I fumble for the lead, nearly cutting off my airway in the process. I knew it was a mistake to drape the lead around my neck. ‘Hugo, sit.’

Hugo doesn’t sit. I try to get out the bag of special, high-value snacks to be used only in emergency situations when Hugo is required to behave particularly well. A dry biscuit isn’t going to cut it this time.

Normally quite self-controlled, one might even say ‘a wuss’, he usually stays right by your side, so close you often knee him in the face. But not now. Not with the trifecta of doggo excitement.

He’s off and, as a result, so am I.

Scarred by my brother telling me I run like a penguin when I was ten years old, I haven’t run much since, and as such I’m pretty sure I now run more like a penguin than before, but even more slowly.

‘Hugooooooo! Stay! Hugo! Sit. Hugo! Hugo, no!’ The last shout comes out a lot quieter than intended – mainly because I’m struggling to breathe, run and shout at the same time.

And, with a speed and agility that he rarely shows, Hugo has herded the dogs into some kind of dog conga line, which proceeds to zoom straight through the (no longer) beautifully laid-out picnic, destroying any food they don’t manage to snaffle, through the pond via a deep quagmire of mud, and back out. Straight for the unicorn.

I try again. ‘Hugo! No!’