"OOH– it’s a beagle isn’t it? Isn’t he cute? You don’t see many of those."

She’s right; you don’t.

"If you see a man with a lead and no dog — that man owns a beagle," runs the joke on the kennel club web site.

So it was with some trepidation that I unclipped Barney’s lead on Saturday. But the National Trust have very helpfully surrounded Danebury Hill fort with dog-proof fences. What could possibly go wrong?

For a couple of throws Barney retrieved the ball in desultory way. But then the beautiful spring day got the better of him. The scents that wafted on the gentle breeze called out an instinct far deeper than a rubber ball and he was off. Bounding away, ears flapping, deaf to my calls, oblivious to my entreaties, he scuttled under the gap in the distant gate and disappeared over the hill on the horizon.

I could hear him yelping and barking in the wood, a sure sign that he’d found a scent and I knew I wouldn’t see him again till he tired of the chase and our paths might accidentally cross as he pursued another trail.

I was angry – not with him. He’s just a beagle. With myself – for taking my eye off the metaphorical ball. Frustrated that the afternoon would be spent searching and calling in vain instead of enjoying the sunshine. Cross that I had been taken in by his cuteness and not done more research before choosing a beagle.

Losing something, anything, is always traumatic. We invariably have a sense of frustration and anger – with the object for having the temerity to get lost – and with ourselves for being witless enough to misplace it.

Barney wasn’t the only thing I lost this week. I lost a friend; after a short, heroic, inspirational, humbling but ultimately losing battle to cancer. She was so young, had so much to live for, so so lovely. We’d first met walking our dogs on Laverstock and Cockey Down. Well, she’d been walking hers, I’d been looking for mine… and though we were never close, we’d talked, been to the pub, had dinner. The news of her death filled me with sadness and anger and frustration. Unlike Barney or other things I’d misplaced, she wasn’t coming back, could never be replaced.

With any loss, we blame ourselves, for not being more careful, for not spending more time together, for not being closer, for leaving undone the things we ought to have done and doing the things we ought not to have done and we live with the regret that some losses are painful and can never be recovered. But there may be some consolation. We do have the ability to amend our ways, to live with fewer regrets and less frustration. Too late perhaps for those we have lost; but not too late for those still entrusted to our care.