At a loss for concentration: run through a series of small chores. Some washing is done, the pros and cons of different sizes of paper guillotines are considered. I'm surprised to find I have made the bed, and part cleaned the cooker.
What I don't do is either forgotten or not a surprise.
I am cross with Dog for ignoring me, when she pounces across the crop field in pursuit of swooping birds: she should not run through the crop, nor pick and choose loyalty. She walks back to the house at heel, on a lead, head down, tail at slow wag.
I am cross with her, she knows.
Yet that utter glee of pursuit, ears and tongue flailing, is the image that comes to me over and over, bounce by bounce.