It was late in the afternoon yesterday, when, slowly at first, Oliver began to complain. He moped about, walking slowly, but didn’t seem to have pain or distress. For the first time since the all-consuming maw of Hugo came along and mealtime became suddenly competitive, he didn’t finish his dinner. Then came groaning, then whimpering. Occasionally he’d start one of those full-body convulsions that dogs have when they’re about to throw up, but nothing came of it.