This morning becomes one of controlled destruction as the dog runs around the house in frenzied glee, shaking the imagined life out of the furred monster, lilac and grey and larger than a cushion. A rare treat provided for the selfish reason of wanting to write. I type to the sound of tearing fur. Kapok cannot be good for a dog’s digestion. To prolong the activity I stitch up a hole, her head placed endearingly on my lap as the needle works its practical magic.