Can't teach an old dog

The dog, as my dear friend Ray put it, has fallen off a cliff.

From running with me for an hour to being dragged through the park.

The dog's only real pleasure is food. Well, he'd probably like me to be a more interactive and playful Crone. To look at him instead of the damn black carrion eaters. To cuddle him at night instead of the needle-clawed yowl monsters.

I have this sense of failing him.

Bloody hell. Why is a Crone's life just a list of things she's shit at?

Horses. TICK

Men. TICK.

Novel writing. TICK.

Art. TICK.

I could go on. Actually, I could try an alphabet.

Art.

B.... Better come back to that. Got it: Being a normal person.

Companionship.

Driving (I know, I do a lot of it, but I have also written off two or three cars. Depends who's counting). And Dog care, obviously.

E... Ethics?

F.... Fuck, this is annoying. Oh, yes, Football journalism. Friendship.

G.... Look, I won't give up. Work in progress. Gardening!!! Gotcha!!!

Happiness. Phew. No, wait, Horses, dammit.

Invention.

Jogging. I jog slower than many people walk. And I might yet use running for R. Just see if I don't.

Kleptomania. I never did shoplift enough.

Literary skills.

Masters. Hell! Forgot: Men

Novel writing. Easy streets.

O dear. Ornithology.

Philosophy.

Queer theory. Tried reading Sara Ahmed. Couldn't make head nor tail of it.

Running. And Riding. And Relationships.

Sketching.

Tarot. I have reasons why I would like to have learned how to read the cards better, OK? It's a Crone thing.

Utilitarianism.

Veganism. I eat biscuits at volunteering.

Watercolours.

X... Now that's just a stupid, made up letter so I won't bother.

Y? Exactly

Zzzzzz. The insomnia is bad again.

See?