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Meg’s Diary: A Broken Ball

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16/6/2025

After my run, I collect Meg and her ball, and go into the lounge (which is carpeted, and out of bounds for Meg). She follows me, and I place the ball on the floor next to her, and tell her: ‘Leave!’ Meg stares at the ball, occasionally placing a paw onto the carpet—which I remind her is not allowed. I then do some floor exercises—press-ups and stretches and stuff—while Meg stares at the ball. Even if someone comes to the door, or walks through the hallway, Meg ignores everything except her ball.

After a few minutes, I praise Meg, throw the ball, continue with the exercises. Meg races down the hall after the ball, brings it back and chews it next to me. After a while (when she has asserted her claim on the ball) she will place it in my hand, ready to repeat.

Today, when I threw the ball, Meg chased after it, then returned without it. She stood in the hall, staring at me. No ball. Something was wrong. I told her to go and fetch the ball.

Meg disappeared for a few minutes. She returned with half the ball. It is made by Kong—and very strong, but it has a separate section in the middle, and over time her chewing means that it has come apart. Meg was very worried by this. She put the half-ball down in front of me and stared, asking what she should do next.

I took the half-ball, and told her to fetch the rest. Meg charged off, and returned with the thin strip that had fallen off the ball. She was obviously very worried by this. I tried to mend it, but it kept falling apart. I shall have to buy a replacement.

***

When we went to the woods today, Meg chased a deer. It happened while we were walking along a narrow footpath, and I was having a rest from sticks and just walking, so Meg had nothing to focus on. She spotted the deer before I did, and was gone in a flash.

I could hear them, crashing through the undergrowth (that would be Meg, she is like a tank when she runs). Then nothing. No sound, no sight, both dog and deer disappeared.

I remember that with Kia, calling her made no difference—if she chased a deer it was a waste of breath. I also think (based on no evidence at all) that if a dog can hear you calling in the distance, it does not make them return but it does give them the confidence to keep running, because they know where the rest of the pack is, so they can leave them there until they have finished chasing the deer. I therefore waited, without making a sound, until I heard the crashing of Meg returning. I quickly turned away, and began to walk off, as if I had not noticed she was missing, and was certainly not waiting for her, and if she got lost, that was her concern. My hope (again, based on no evidence at all) is that if Meg knows I will not wait for her, or even care that she is gone, then perhaps it will stop her running too far. The responsibility to stay ‘with the pack’ belongs with her. I have absolutely no idea whether this makes any difference. Nor do I know what I will do in the event that Meg does not return (because actually, I will care very much). But most of my training of Meg is based on compromise and chances, so hopefully that will never happen.

Hope you make some good compromises this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

You Only Get One Life

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I don’t have time to write much this week, but I was wondering—do you have an ethos for life? A sort of ‘code’ that you try to live by?

The thing that I most often try to remind myself is this: You only have one life. Life is short. Live well.

Of course, ‘living well’ is open to interpretation, but for me it means trying to live each day in a good way, a way that makes the world a better place, the way that I think God wants me to live. I realise that living well will be different for different people, but I still think that as a whole, this is a good aim in life. I also try to evaluate how I am doing, to spend a little time at bedtime assessing whether I think I have managed this. Usually I have not, and there are things I wish I hadn’t said or done. But again, I think this is a helpful thing to do—not to beat myself up, but so I can be deliberate about trying to change in the future. I think it is possible, as we get older, to live better lives than we did when we were younger. (Not, I hasten to clarify, better lives than other people—of whatever age—but better than we used to when we were younger.) Maybe, if I live to be a thousand, I might be a holy person.

This time of year is especially important for me to remind myself of this aim (to live well, not to be holy when I’m a thousand). It’s very difficult to prioritise our time as we near the end of the year, and Christmas looms ever nearer, and there is so much that I want to do. Days are not long enough.

Therefore, as I juggle the building stress of knowing I still need to buy lots of gifts, and I ought to clean the floor, and I really need to spend a few hours studying, and I haven’t had my eyes tested for ages and I need to sort that, plus all the regular stuff that has to happen in order to live. Sometimes it’s too much, and I need to stop, and remember. I need to decide what is important today. What needs to go on a list for tomorrow, and what can be fitted in but only if there’s time. And when I am doing stuff—going to the optician or rushing into the supermarket for milk or walking the dog—am I doing it well? Am I making the world, my little bit of the world, better? Sometimes it’s not so much what we do, but how we do it.

I will leave you with that thought for now, because I am trying to decipher a book about Hebrew punctuation, so that I can then decipher the Hebrew. It’s very interesting, but quite complicated, and not many people seem to explain it so I’m rather pleased that I managed to find a book about it. Reading Hebrew is very like reading a secret code, and you need to look for clues beyond the words sometimes. Meg is less interested, and keeps coming to poke me with her nose, so I shall have to walk her soon. But I shall try to do both things well. Because I only have one life, and life is short.

Hope you manage to live well this week. Thanks for reading and take care.
Love, Anne x

He planned to buy her a leaf-blower, so it would be easier for her to see the dog mess when clearing up in the autumn…

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Hello, do you enjoy buying gifts? What about receiving gifts? It seems to me, that people seem to fit into one of two boxes—either they love all things to do with gifts, and joyfully waste money on all sort of things just so they can wrap and give them, and they get tremendous pleasure from receiving gifts—or they feel awkward when receiving a gift and would rather people didn’t waste their money on them, and they would prefer a list when buying gifts so they can buy exactly what the person wants. I wonder, which box would you fit into? Or are you a combination of the two?

Some people are very good at buying ‘surprises.’ They seem able to think about what the recipient enjoys doing (which does of course require that you know the recipient well) and then they buy something to complement the hobby. (I think I have written in a previous blog, how one year Husband went to great effort to get a print of a painting that I had raved over in a gallery. This is now a very treasured possession.)

Here are my tips for buying a gift, just in case you are struggling. Of course, if you are buying for a person in the second box, they might actually prefer that you buy them something from their list, and sometimes that is the kindest thing to do. Sometimes we need to remember the gift is intended to make the recipient happy, it needn’t be something we enjoy giving. But assuming you know the person likes a surprise, here are some suggestions.

If they have a hobby (think about what they enjoy doing regularly) think of a gift for this. Even if they only really relax when watching telly, you can buy them a pretty blanket if they’re a ‘cold’ person, or a cushion, or case to keep their specs in. It’s all about thinking about what they enjoy doing (which probably is not picking up dog mess, even if they spend time doing that every day!)

Food treats are often another good gift. Either buy them something they will enjoy eating/drinking, or bake them their favourite cake/cookies/fudge. (This one does rather depend on your cooking skills, there are definitely some people who I would not like to receive home-baked goodies from!) Or maybe something food-related—a mug for their evening cocoa, a tumbler for their brandy, another teacup for the set they are collecting.

Another favourite of mine—which probably only applies if you are a young adult—is a promise of time. My family in the past have given me vouchers for afternoon tea with them. So I get to spend several hours with my extremely busy child, and we can have a proper chat. A real treat. Once, at a baby shower many years ago, I was given two days of cleaning from a friend who was a cleaner. It was amazing after having a baby to see my house beautifully clean (just as nice as all the Peter Rabbit crockery and knitted cardigans). I imagine a grandparent would appreciate a promise of gardening help in the spring.

Memories are always another excellent gift. A framed photo from the fun-filled holiday, a picture of a pet, the beer we drank in some far-away place. My siblings gave me photos from my childhood when I last had a ‘big’ birthday, and they are very precious.

So there you are, my tips for successful gift-giving. [If my family are reading this, I would really love a couple of baby goats, or alpacas, or donkeys, or calves—but don’t tell Dad because he has banned everything other than poultry!]

I hope you enjoy the preparations for Christmas, and are successful in your gift-buying. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

PS. In case you follow my blog, my last venesection was cancelled because my iron levels were surprisingly low. Yaay! That was a happy surprise. Hoping they stay low for the December test.

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anneethompson.com
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Meg’s Diary: Not Well

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Meg was ill. She started being sick during the night, and was still being ill in the morning.

It’s always very difficult when a dog (or very young child) is ill, because you have to make a decision on their behalf as to how serious it is. I am not a great one for rushing to the doctor/vet whenever someone is ill, because I think usually people/animals get well by themselves. Going to the doctor/vet is just a big hassle (when you’re already stressed after clearing up unexpected mess) plus it means the ill child/dog has to be transported (not always easy when trying to contain mess) plus it mainly introduces them to a whole lot of new germs when their immunity is already low (because it is mostly other germy people/dogs in the waiting rooms). Plus with the vet, there is the lovely addition of the cost.

We do not have pet insurance for Meg. We decided with our other dogs to ‘self-insure,’ noticing that when they were younger they rarely needed medical attention and it was cheaper to pay ourselves than to pay the premium, and when they get old, the premium rises to being very expensive. The pet insurance companies are not running a charity, and we decided the risks were in our favour. Obviously, this is a personal decision, and we are aware that if something unexpected happened, we might have to pay an extremely expensive bill or six. But Kia lived to 16 years  old, and even with a whopping bill for a twisted stomach surgery, we still think we saved money.

Vet bills and insurance is difficult for me. I worry that due to the ease of ‘not really paying’ at the time, people allow vets to undertake evermore complex (and costly) treatments, and I don’t know whether the animal is always better off. It can be hard to let go, but I do think that for an animal—who does not understand the pain or what is happening, sometimes that is the kinder option. I fully understand how difficult the decision can be, I think we lose a little bit of our heart with every animal we lose, and I still mourn my other dogs. But sometimes, when a treatment is difficult and lengthy and the odds of it working are slim or the animal will never be pain-free afterwards, I question whether it is the kindest option. Plus, I think not using insurance keeps things real. I have a problem with balancing priorities with money—there will never be enough in the world, and I know that there are currently people suffering due to lack of resources—is a pet’s life worth more than a child’s? This is an issue for me, and not one that I solve logically. I do spend a lot of money on keeping my pets fed and healthy, and I do give a relatively small amount of money (in regards to how much I keep for myself) to aid agencies. But when there is a huge vet’s bill, if I am paying myself and not just signing a form for the insurance people, it makes me stop, and think, and evaluate. I ask myself whether this huge amount of money is best spent on my pet, and whether I can justify it in the big picture. As I said, it is not logical, and I do not question every coffee I buy in a cafe, or every random pair of shoes that I buy, but I do think that occasionally it is good to have ‘stops’ in our brain, something to make us pause and consider what we should be spending our money on.

But none of these issues were at stake here, Meg was vomiting, and I needed to decide what to do. I tried to think about what she might have eaten, and I realised that we do have poisonous plants in the garden, and although she has never touched them, maybe she did. Or she might have picked up a germ from another dog. Or she may have eaten something that has made her sick but is not dangerous. As I said, it’s the same with a small child—you have to decide whether this is something serious that needs fast medical attention, or something that will get better on its own. I tend to have a general rule that if the patient is basically well in themselves (not too lethargic/listless) and if they are drinking water, they will probably be okay to leave for a day.[1] Then they will either be better or worse, which makes the decision easier. Meg seemed fine in herself, maybe slightly less bouncy, but still keen to come in the garden, and she was drinking water. (Also, she was only being sick, her bowels seemed to be okay, so she wasn’t losing vast amounts of liquid.) I decided to wait and watch (and clean the kitchen floor). After a morning, she seemed completely fine. When she was well the next day, I decided she was better, and stopped worrying. I still have no idea whether she ate something bad, or caught a germ. But my kitchen floor is very clean.

Hope your kitchen floor is clean for a better reason. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

[1] It should be noted that there are certain conditions which do not fit into this rule, and they need to be learnt separately. For example, any of the meningitis signs on a child would get instant attention. In a dog, I know that a twisted stomach does not initially bother them, but they need fast attention: look out for ‘egg-white’ type vomit, when they are not managing to bring up anything from their stomach, and general signs of discomfort or distended tummy. Kia was sick shortly after eating, but none of the food was in her vomit, which was a big sign that something was wrong, but she seemed fine and was excited to be ‘going for a walk’ when we took her to the vet. We managed to get her to a vet in time for them to operate, and she lived for several more years, and she did run along the beach again. (My one question: If we put her through this surgery, will she ever run along the beach again?)

When the Bible Text Disappoints

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When did you last read the Bible? Or do you only read it if you’re in a church? I try to read it each day—one chapter with my morning coffee. I start at the beginning (Genesis) and go right through to the end, then start again. It’s surprising how much I don’t remember! It’s like wellies standing in water—nothing sticks. I have now started to make notes—a few sentences for each chapter, to try and make myself notice what I am reading. So far, it’s working, and it stops me ‘skim-reading’ and makes me think.

This week, I read the bit about Moses returning to Egypt to tell Pharoah to release the Israelites—and it made me think. I am reading it as a theological text—so I am not concerned with whether it’s historically accurate or not (it might be, it might not be). I want to know what the author was trying to explain about the God/human relationship. It’s hard to know what the point of this narrative is.

In brief:[1] Moses eventually obeys God and returns to Egypt to tell Pharoah that he must let the Israelites leave (they are currently slaves). First he goes to the Israelites, shows them some miracles and tells them his message, and they are very excited. At last, after centuries of slavery, God is going to save them. Everyone is happy. Then Moses (and his brother Aaron) go to Pharoah and tell him the same message. Pharoah is angry and sarcastic, and increases the workload of the Israelites, punishing their overseers. The people are so disappointed. Instead of releasing them, Pharoah has made everything harder. So now they feel abandoned (again) by God, and angry with Moses for raising their hopes. God gives Moses another message for Pharoah, and he wonders what the point is—he tells God that he (God) has made everything worse, and now Moses doesn’t even have the backing of the Israelites, so what is the point? I wonder this too—what was the point?

There would, I assume have been elderly Israelites, who after hearing that God was going to release them, saw everything get worse, and then they died. What did this message teach them about God? What did it teach anyone? When God said: ‘I am going to do this,’ people tended to think it would happen soon. But actually, usually in biblical texts, it did not.

The Israelites were told they would be released, and returned to Canaan. Canaan is the land promised to Abraham centuries before. Abraham never received it. He was also promised a son, and he did eventually have a son (Isaac) but not until years later than he expected.[2] (Abraham actually had eight sons, but only Ishmael and Isaac are talked about.)

What are these texts trying to teach us? Perhaps that God can be trusted, but things might not happen fast, or in the way we are expecting? That when all looks like it is going wrong (a bit like the world today) there may be a plan we don’t understand? And if that is the message, the hidden lesson behind the words, then what do we do with that? How does it help to know that people have their hopes raised, only to be disappointed, but eventually it turns out okay. I’m not sure. It is certainly reflected in real life—I have seen lots of people ‘sure’ they understand what God wants, only to discover they are wrong, things don’t happen as expected. Sometimes things (businesses, ministries, churches, charities) fail, despite people being sure that this is what God wants. I don’t know why.

Perhaps (and it’s only a ‘perhaps’ not really an answer) it is to teach us that we do not control God. God is God, and we might sometimes share some of the plan, but never the whole story, and we should not forget that. Perhaps the text teaches us to trust God. Nothing else, just trust. In real life, that is not easy. Humans like to plan for the future. What do you think?

I hope you cope well with any disappointments that happen this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com

[1] Ex.4:27—5:23.

[2] Gen.17 and 21.

When the Week is Difficult

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Hello and how was your week? Mine was difficult—one of those weeks when you look in the diary, and wish you could zoom straight to next weekend. Which, given how short life is, seems a shame, but sometimes the whole week just looks horrible. I survived, fuelled by having had a lovely rest in Crete, and supported by my wonderful husband and friends, I have made it to the weekend and it was not as bad as feared. (Excuse the ** below, the AI censors won’t allow certain words. Don’t read this if medical details upset you.)

My main problem is my health, which I find very irritating. I feel like I had my ‘thing’ when I had the brain tumour, and now it should be someone else’s turn. But life is not like that. As you will know from previous blogs, I have haemochromatosis (my body stores too much iron) which means I have to have monthly venesections (they remove quantities of bl**d) with a bl**d test a few days before. I am a complete wimp when it comes to having things stuck into me, so it never goes well (though I am pretty much used to the bl**d tests now). But however much I pray/recite poetry in foreign languages/ breathe calmly, at about 300 ml my body goes into shock, decides it does not like what is happening, and I go all woozy, and the poor nurse who is struggling with my dodgy veins has to stop. Last month the nurse decided she needed help, so she pushed the ‘emergency’ button (I was in a separate room—usually I am just parked in the corner of the oncology department with all the patients receiving chemotherapy). Soo embarrassing! An alarm sounded round the hospital (Husband, in the waiting room, thought it must be a fire alarm which everyone was ignoring) and my room filled up with people. Really, I cannot describe how embarrassed I was. There were hundreds of people in the room—the ‘crash team’ had arrived, complete with trolleys to resuscitate patients, and oxygen, and monitors—the whole works. I kept apologising, telling them I was fine, but they told me I was completely white, and strapped an oxygen mask to my face (I think mainly to make me stop talking) while they checked my heart hadn’t stopped and things like that. Of course, everything was fine except that my silly body had panicked and sent all the bl**d to my vital organs, leaving nothing for the poor nurse to drain and not enough for me to remain vertical. They gave me a cup of tea and sent me home.

Therefore, this week, my first venesection since my crash-team experience, was not on my list of favourite activities. Monday was the bl**d test. The lovely nurse tried to use my left arm (because the nerves are damaged in the right arm, and it hurts my wrist, even when working at elbow level). Left arm is empty, so right arm it was. Survived. Monday night, the hospital phoned to say they could only see bl**ds for liver test (another thing that seems to be a bit broken, which my GP is trying to fathom) so please could I go back for another bl**d test on Tuesday. Tuesday, second bl**d test, in hospital, and clever nurse managed to find enough bl**d in left arm. Then I had two days off, hoping they would phone and cancel my venesection (like a child, hoping an exam will be cancelled). Friday, I went for the venesection.

All went well, no crash-team involved, clever nurse (a different one) managed to extract a full pint (which never happens). Yaay!

So that’s my week, fully survived and less bad than I feared. Life is often like that isn’t it—the things we dread turn out to be not as bad as we thought—and the absolute sense of relief when they are over is wonderful. I now have three weeks of ‘normal,’ spending time studying, and sorting the animals, and pootling round the house—these are my favourite weeks. My next venesection is on 21st November, but I will be less worried next time—they are never fun, but at least I know the crash-team will not be a new feature each time.

I hope your bad weeks are less awful than you fear. Sometimes, we just have to get on with stuff we hate, knowing it will pass in time. But it’s never fun. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

My Tips for Coping with Bad Health:

  1. The time actually being treated is relatively small, so use the rest of your time well. The journey to the hospital can be a fun chance to sing loudly to favourite songs or chat to the person driving. The waiting room is a good place to read a novel, learn a foreign language, write shopping lists—whatever you want to spend time doing. Don’t just sit and wait, that’s very dreary.
  2. The time not taken with medical stuff is yours—so don’t waste it with constant worry/talking about health. (Not easy!) Decide what you want to do, and focus on that. If I have lots of medical appointments, I try to fit them round the rest of life, rather than living life around medical stuff. Most appointments can be changed slightly to fit round other events.
  3. Plan a little treat for afterwards—and remind yourself of it when you enter the treatment room. A cup of coffee and a cake, a bar of chocolate, a visit with a friend—something to look forward to.
  4. Pray—whatever you believe, this is always good. (There are examples in the Bible of people praying for things they did not expect to receive—and they didn’t![1]—but it’s still a good principle, because you never know what might happen, plus it’s good to dump your worries/hopes/wishes somewhere.) I am praying to be healed of haemochromatosis, which would be a miracle because it can’t be ‘cured’. I’m not expecting this, and I certainly don’t deserve it, but there’s no harm with asking.

[1] 2 Sam.12:16-22.

Cyclists

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I would like to have a rant. If this will put you off your cornflakes, maybe read it later (or not at all) but really, I need to moan. My problem is cyclists on the road. Let me explain.

Now, before I begin, I should admit that I also cycle on the road. In fact, after my surgery cycling was my only form of transport for many months because I wasn’t allowed to drive. I feel this gives me some rights with regard to cyclists, because I am one of them. I know what it means to slog up a hill, to be overtaken at speed by a careless driver, to be squashed into the pavement when they misjudge an overtake, to risk being thrown by dangerous potholes. However, without being overly harsh, some cyclists should have their bikes forcibly removed and put into a crusher.

Cyclists have every right to be on the road and not be killed by careless drivers. They do not, however, have the right to cycle selfishly, to ignore all the rules of the road, to flip between road and pathway, to inconvenience and cause trouble to everyone else on the road. I find it intensely irritating when someone is selfish, and most cyclists I encounter seem to be exceptionally selfish (especially those wearing lycra, but that’s another issue).

When I am driving, I will do my best to make the road safe for cyclists. I will not overtake them when I can’t see round the corner, or when the road is too narrow, or when someone is approaching towards me. I wait, patiently driving at snail-pace, until I can overtake safely, giving them a wide berth, ready for unexpected wobbles due to potholes. However, when there is a traffic queue, I do not expect them to overtake me on the inside (which is a traffic violation) so that I have to repeatedly overtake them. Nor do I expect them to selfishly move to the front of the line at traffic lights, so that when the light turns green not only do we all have to overtake them again but if there are roadworks we also have to drive extra slowly behind them until the road is clear. To do this is just plain selfish. Why do they think they have more rights than anyone else? Why can they break the law by overtaking on the inside, and then expect the law to protect them?

Now, when I am in charge of the world, I shall make it a legal requirement for all cyclists to wear a high-visibility jacket, with a number–like a car number plate. Then these lycra-wearing road-hogging obstacles will be easy to identify, people can record their number, report them to the police (who can then either crush their bike, or fine them–whichever is deemed most appropriate). They also, before being allowed on the road, should be forced to read the Highway Code, and to sign it, acknowledging that there are laws around road-use, and if they use the road, they should obey the laws.

I’m sure I am not alone in feeling exasperated by cyclists. When I have slowed my journey to overtake them safely, I do not feel inclined to do this repeatedly. My feeling is that I have kept them safe once, if they repeatedly under-take me, must I protect them again and again when I overtake them a second and third time. They can only steal so much of my time. It takes incredible self-control to continue to protect them. They should know this–not every driver has incredible self-control. They make the road dangerous, especially for other cyclists, because we all get lumped into the same ‘selfish cyclist’ group. There are some cyclists who do behave properly, who do deserve to be protected, who have every right to being protected. But please, do let’s stop selfish cyclists abusing their position. Let’s make road use fair.

Thanks for reading. Drive safely, and take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
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Meg’s Diary

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28/5/2025

We had another Bank Holiday weekend, and this one had nothing planned so we chilled at home. On the Sunday I was feeling lazy, and the view from upstairs showed the field next to the house was freshly mown, with no animals, and the sun was shining—so we thought, why not walk Meg there for a change? What could possibly go wrong?

Of course, lots could go wrong before we even left the driveway, so I was careful to ensure that Husband was happy to hold the lead the entire way—so if a car passed us Meg wouldn’t break my arm in her quest to chase it. Husband decided to also bring the extending lead, which I have now deemed as too dangerous given the speed that Meg reaches before the lock clicks in, and I am pulled after her at 45 mph. But he was convinced it would be fine, and off we set.

There is a large oak tree in the corner of the field, so when we passed I collected lots of fallen sticks, and Husband and Meg collected the largest logs they could carry, and off we went. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, Meg was happily walking round the field with us, chasing sticks. At one point a car went down the lane, and Meg raced the length of the field trying to catch it, but she was safely behind the hedge, so I viewed it as good exercise.

But then it all went wrong (of course it did!) Husband threw his log, which bounced, and Meg zoomed after it, and as she caught it, she yelped. I wasn’t sure what had happened, and she looked unhurt as she ran back to us. But then I realised she had blood dripping from her mouth. I called her to me, and made her sit, and opened her mouth (she’s very good at letting me poke my fingers in her mouth, and the only times she has ever bitten me is when she’s snatching at a stick). But she wouldn’t let me look properly, so we took her home, trailing drips of blood behind us.

At home, I put some cider vinegar into her water bowl as a way to try and clean whatever was cut, but Meg sniffed it and walked to her bed, refusing to drink. We checked her a few times, and I decided that if she was no better the following day we would take her to the vet. In my experience, animals have a very fast metabolism, and most times (unless there is something obvious, like a cut or a splinter) they get better on their own.

Meg didn’t eat anything that night, but the next morning I wet her dried food so it was soft, and she ate it all. I tried to look in her mouth, but all I could see was that under her tongue was swollen. She didn’t let me move her tongue to see if there was a splinter. I decided to wait another couple of days, because I couldn’t see that the vet would be able to do anything without a general anaesthetic and I am unkeen to allow those unless strictly necessary. Gradually, Meg improved, she stopped being subdued (that didn’t last more than a few hours) and began to use her mouth normally.

***

On the Monday, we decided to walk to the pub for lunch, and as it was nice having Meg in the field for a change, we decided to take her. We last took her to the pub about a year ago, and she was very annoying, so I was hoping for an improvement.

Walking to the pub was mostly okay. We could do most of it in fields. Meg clearly remembered the route, even after all this time, and was often in the lead. We had to cross a stile, and Meg remembered where it was, and squeezed through the central gap without a problem. A few cars passed us on the lane, and Meg was terrible, and leapt at them—but we knew that she would, and Husband had her on a tight lead, and no one was injured.

In the pub I tied Meg to a wall, and pulled a ball from my pocket. At home she will concentrate on a ball for a long time, waiting until she is allowed to have it. It worked less well in the pub. Initially she lay down, with her paws either side, and her head above the ball—not touching (which was not allowed) but only millimetres away. When she thought I wasn’t looking, she nudged it forward. I then tried giving her the ball, thinking that the treat of being allowed the ball might keep her quiet for a while. But Meg wanted me to throw it, and when I didn’t, she did. She was fairly near some steps, and she managed to toss the ball towards them, and then lurched forward to get it, nearly pulling the hook out of the wall she was attached to. At one point a woman passed, and Meg barked her ‘big dog’ bark and I realised the woman was carrying a small dog. Everyone in the pub jumped, and then stared. I apologised, tried to get her to refocus on the ball. It was not a relaxing lunch. However, it was not completely terrible, so I might try it again.

The walk home was relaxed. Meg ran free most of the time, and we ignored her and enjoyed being in the sunshine. I love to watch her run around, and she probably made the walk more fun (if you don’t include the lurching at cars thing—I certainly could never take her on my own). It takes us about an hour to walk to the pub, and when I leave Meg at home, I then have to take her for a walk, so it’s much easier if she comes with us. We decided that taking Meg with us made it less relaxing, but it was not a complete failure. In Meg-world, that’s about as good as it gets.

I hope you have something relaxing this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
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Meg’s Diary

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6/5/2025

I have had a fun week with Meg—perhaps because it has been a ‘normal’ week, with nothing to make her over-excited. The only unusual event was that Meg chased a deer. We were walking in the woods, and I was throwing sticks (but a little apathetically—it was hot) when I heard the trees rustling. I guessed it was probably a deer, but I took no notice because we have encountered deer many times in the woods, and Meg is always more interested in the sticks I throw. But not this time. This time Meg went off to investigate. I watched her walk into the trees, sniffing, then she stopped, ears alert. She paused for a second and then was off, zooming through the trees and out of sight. I never saw a deer, but I assume that’s what she saw. I waited. I waited for quite a long time. Husband started to call her, but I suggested it was better to wait. I thought that if Meg could hear us, she would confidently continue to run away, knowing we were waiting. If we were silent, perhaps she would notice that she was alone and decide to return before she got too far away. I have no idea if this is a thing, but most of my dog-training techniques are based on ignorance, so it was worth a try. After a few minutes I spotted Meg returning, so we quickly resumed our walk, trying to look as if we didn’t care whether she was with us or not, and we (the pack) were leaving without her. Again, no idea if this is a thing, but it made me feel in control.

Another change is that this week (and maybe only this week) Meg has been jumping into the boot without a fuss. The turning point came one day when I was frustrated by our regular stand-off: me staring at Meg trying to coax her into the boot with treats and commands, her staring back and trying to coax me on a longer walk by refusing to get into the car. I clipped a long lead onto a restraining point in the car, the other onto her collar, and removed her lead. Then I just ignored her, and changed into my shoes ready to drive away. Meg jumped into the boot. The following day, as soon as she saw me reach for the long lead, she jumped into the boot. I no longer have to reach for the long lead—we get to the car, I open the boot, Meg jumps inside (just like all the other dogs I see, who are less awkward than my treasure). The only reason that I can think of, is that Meg was only awkward because I cared, and if I am not even going to try then she can’t be bothered to make a stand. Is this a dog thing? It’s certainly a teenaged boy thing, and Meg definitely has other similar behaviour traits to teenaged boys, so maybe it is. I will let you know if it continues. Perhaps ‘not caring’ is a way to make her obedient. That would be easy. (I cannot describe how different this is to Kia, my lovely ‘normal’ GSD, who would have walked through fire to please me and was upset if I was unhappy. Meg just sees me as competition!)

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23/5/2025

Last weekend we went to Cambridge. It’s when we want to go away that having a dog feels like a hassle. Usually we pay vast amounts of money to put her in kennels, but this time My daughter kindly agreed to have her. I knew Meg would be happy (I was slightly more worried about Daughter!)

I walked Meg in the woods on the way to my daughter’s and then while Husband unloaded her crate from the car, I walked with Meg along the road. I wanted to see whether, now she is older, she will walk without leaping at cars when she is somewhere unfamiliar. For the first half of the walk (about 5 minutes) Meg was fine, although was clearly ‘noticing’ the cars. But I had a stick, and when a car came I managed to refocus her attention to the stick (which was snapped into pieces by the end of the 5 minutes—so she was tense). It all went wrong when we were nearly back at Daughter’s house. A car could be heard, approaching at speed, and I saw Meg click into ‘fully alert’ mode. I tried to make her focus on me, and told her to sit, and tried to calm her—but it was too late. As the car whizzed round the corner, Meg hurled herself towards it (and nearly broke my arm). Shame. Husband came came and rescued me, and I told Daughter that it definitely is not safe to walk Meg near a road, and she should just play with her in the garden while we were away.

When we collected Meg at the end of the weekend, she was happy and excited, and Daughter was okay and unharmed, so I feel it was successful.

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Yesterday I made a mistake, and let Meg into the garden when cockerel was out. He had been annoying when I shut up the birds for the night, and he ran off when he saw me trying to herd them all inside, so I was feeling cross with him and decided that he would have to cope with Meg. This was a bad mistake. I thought she would bark at him (as she does when on the lead) and that he would posture aggressively, and after facing-off, I would be able to herd him inside. It didn’t go like that.

Meg came up the garden with me, and I made sure she had a stick in her mouth. She saw the cockerel, and in an instant had dropped the stick and was on him. I called her, shouted to ‘Stop!’ and ‘Leave!’ Meg was deaf, zero response. She leapt onto the cockerel, and pinned him down. He made all sorts of attempts to get free and tried to jump at her with his spurs ready to attack, but she had him, trapped between her feet, long feathers drifting round them. I heaved her off him, and Husband took her inside while I sorted cockerel. I thought he was dead, but he wasn’t, he was just squashed. I lifted him into the cage, and watched to see whether he was likely to recover. He stood up, looked a bit dazed, and then started to walk around. Other than loosing some feathers, I think he is unharmed.

This was a learning experience for me—do not let Meg near my birds. It all happened in a second. But to be fair, Meg did not seem to be trying to kill him, I don’t think her teeth went near him, she just wanted to restrain him. Obviously my birds are too small, and she could easily kill one by mistake, but I guess she was only following her instinct to dominate and capture a herd (just happened to be a bird, not a flock of sheep). I’m not sure I will ever be able to train her to be safe around my other animals, though at least she has absolutely no aggression towards them.

I hope you have a safe week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
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A Country Wedding

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A Country Wedding

My son was married in August. It was a beautiful wedding, and the day was perfect. Being mother of the groom is somewhat different to being mother of the bride. This is slightly strange, as obviously as a mother you have invested the same amount of love, time, energy, into raising a son as a daughter—but the relationship is slightly different when they’re adults. Plus, usually the wedding is the bride’s vision, so as a helper of the groom, the role is less clear.

The wedding was in Norfolk, and we rented a nearby house the week before so we could help wherever we were able. They had decided to book a ‘dry venue’—which does not mean that it has a roof (although it did) nor that it doesn’t allow alcohol (because it did) but rather that it is just a space. No furniture no decorations. The bride’s family are very artistic, and they wanted to create a very personal space for the reception.

My main role was making cupcakes. They had asked me ages ago if I would, and I could not think of a way to transport them safely and freshly to Norfolk, so initially I said no. But then I realised I could bake them in the rented house, if she could find me space in someone’s freezer. I don’t enjoy cooking in a foreign kitchen, and I took absolutely all the equipment I would need (even my little cup that has a good rim for cracking eggs). When we arrived at the house, the cooker was exactly the same as my one at home, which was brilliant. I tested it with my oven thermometer, adjusted the cooking time for a slightly hotter oven, and all was good. I spent several hours baking and decorating cupcakes, and they were all finished by the Tuesday before the wedding.

We helped with other jobs where we could, although mostly the bride’s family wanted to do everything. This was an adjustment for me (my family is usually the ones organising things) but I could see they were working hard, and producing beautiful things, so I tried to not get in the way.

The bride’s mother had grown most of the flowers in her garden. We had all collected jam jars for the year before the wedding, and they twisted wire loops around them so they could hang on the end of each pew. They also had milk churns—no country wedding would be complete without milk churns.

On the Thursday we had a rehearsal and met the vicar. She was very jolly, and told us all what to do, where to sit and stand. The ‘bridesmaids’ (the bride’s three brothers) and the ‘groomsmen’ (the groom’s siblings) practised walking into the church, and the bride made decisions about who would walk in first.

On the Friday we could help decorate the venue. They had rented round tables, and cloths, and chairs. We assembled everything, adding decorations like fairy lights and candles. Most people left to help with the flowers (including my younger son, which bemused me—I don’t really think of him as good with flowers). We continued to arrange things according to the bride’s plan, as best as we could. We needed batteries for the lights, so set off for the supermarket (things like that take ages). Son 2 sent an urgent message saying he was starving (obviously ignored the advice to eat an early lunch) so we bought food too. I then went home with Son 2, Husband went with the bride and groom to collect the flowers (and a lot of jam jar water, I believe) for the reception venue.

The wedding day was lovely. We arrived at the church, which was beautiful with candles and flowers. The bride walked across the field from her home, with her father and ‘bridesmaids’ and her face, smiling at my son as she walked down the aisle, is a memory to treasure. The ceremony was perfect. My daughter had written a poem, and that made everyone cry, and my youngest son had dressed as a chauffer for the ride to the reception, which made everyone laugh.

The reception began with the speeches—because Son knew he wouldn’t relax until he had given his speech and he wanted to enjoy the party. Then we had curry, which I have never before eaten at a wedding but actually went down rather well. There was dancing, and laughter, and lots of chance to chat to family and just enjoy being together.

I hope you have something lovely this week too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Walking to church
This is what love looks like.

Some of the photographs taken from abimckennaphotography.

Thanks for reading.
anneethompson.com
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