The rabbits are dying in our back garden and it's not my fault. 'Her Indoors' has disposed of five in a week. She's running out of carrier bags. It's always a close run thing as to who will find the dead ones first, her or me. She's got sharp eyes and I've got a keen nose. She doesn't like my attempts at a terrier style disposal. As she's not sure what's killing them, she's being very watchful and I barely get a moment to myself. She doesn't like the rabbits because they eat her plants, but she doesn't really like harm coming to anything in her garden. She accidentally picked a toad up with a load of compost yesterday so she rescued it and put it in the shade. I even caught her talking to it - she called it 'sweetie'. Clearly she's never tasted one, and doesn't she know that toads don't understand English?
Anyway, all this fresh air out in the garden is wearing me out. 'Junior Him' was back from uni last weekend with a friend, Mike, who was very good in the ball throwing department. It's taken me all week to recover. My old war wound, obtained by jumping over the guinea pig run when I was a youngster, has been twinging a little so 'Her Indoors' has banned ball chasing for a bit. 'Him Indoors' kept forgetting until 'Her Indoors' reminded him that a trip to the vets could result. That focused his mind I can tell you.