My Pitbull/Boxer cross is looking at me askance. She wants to go for a run. She knows I run, and she enjoys this weather which is coolish and breezy. There are many good trails around our house, kept springy and well sanded by the nocturnal efforts of many little men in golf carts, employed by the extremely expensive spa resort next door.
Mrs Twit wants to chase rabbits and roll in their excrement. She wants to goose tourists briskly and try to steal ice-creams from small children. I know all this because she tells me so. One firm push with her flat-ended muzzle, covered in short, wiry hairs, that penetrate the material of my trousers and go straight into the meat of my thigh, to wrest my attention from *whatever* I might be doing, and then one pace back, and the full-chested grunt. And I mean grunt.
Here she comes again. She’s working up to another one. She’ll keep going until she gets what she wants. However, this time she won’t because I simply can’t. Stuck to the sofa, vertigo, lethargic to the point of coma. Visual disturbance. Pain. Everywhere.
I’d love to go for a run. I really would.