It was very nice rice. I don’t think I have the vocabulary to say any more, but yes, Bil or Ali, it was the good stuff. We had a wearing afternoon. The Professor, trying to write, upstairs, me, trying to read (mostly ), downstairs. Miss Dog had had a proper walk in the forest, ate her dinner in regulation style, and so forth. Miss Kit relieved herself, ate, sparingly but adequately, yummed up some raw beef, and drank in a perfectly normal fashion. Yet, for most of the afternoon and evening, Miss Dog whined, and Miss Kit wailed. I can certainly say in re Miss Kit that the little creature seemed really distressed. She sat on my knee crying incessantly, sometimes wriggling up to stare me desperately in the face, refused to be put down or handed over to her hot spot, and made it all but impossible for me to work. When I got up to confer with the Professor, she followed me upstairs wailing all the way. A shot of Metacam painkiller went down without incident, and nothing seems to be wrong with her back or legs. Between half nine and ten, Miss Dog went to her steel hotel for peaceful slumber, Miss Kit to her hot spot, where she remains, immersed in placid dreams as far as I can see. Were peculiar atmospheric conditions upsetting both of them? Has a wildcat or some other fearsome beast passed silently through the wood? One or other seems the most obvious, since they were both upset, and both stopped being upset at about the same time. They’re generally fairly scrutable. But not always.