My kleptomaniac magpie has been at it again. This morning I found a satsuma, the remains of another one chewed, a bunch of fresh coriander and a plastic detergent measuring cup in his bed. It's not even where he sleeps, as I make a cosy nest for him on the kitchen sofa with an old fleece of mine and that's where he spends the night. I just can't imagine what gets into his head that he needs to collect these objects. Before I go to bed I settle him down and sit next to him, stroking him and telling him how much I love him. But every time I get up to go, leaving him with a firm, confident pat and a "Night night, see you in the morning" he turns those tragic whippet eyes on me pleading to be taken too. It never works, but it doesn't stop him trying. Every day now we play with the squeaky ball, and he can catch it in his mouth when I throw it to him. Who would believe you had to teach a dog to play.
Mary came today for the first time since the middle of December, and I was a bit nervous in case I was significantly less fit than last time. But I needn't have worried as I easily managed the exercises she set me. I haven't quite learned yet that it's a mistake to show anything but massive effort and ideally pain too. She pounces if you're not struggling, and ups the ante. A few moans and groans make for a lighter ride. I love this hour with her, and wish I could afford to have her every day. Today the wind howled through the trees and the clouds skudded across an otherwise clear and sunny sky. Too rough for table tennis again, but we'll get there. I'm itching to play again. We talked about being competitive, and I admitted that I want to win at everything I do. But she's the same, a triathlete who thrives on the toughness of her sport and the challenge of beating everyone else. We're cut from the same cloth, her and me, but there the similarities end. Nothing would persuade me to do what she does, fighting sickness and exhaustion every time she competes. Scrabble anyone?
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