The other day I was on about Angel.
He knows better than I how much space is required between us. I would never accuse Angel of doing things out of spite, but the way he gets up and takes a few steps, he's dismissive of my role in his front lawn. Maybe that's just me over-stating the tilt of his head or how he gave me the tailfeather on my way by.
And they're all like that.
I, too, pretend not to give in to Angel. I play Scrooge, implying that maybe, yes maybe, I carry a cane.
It's a civil arrangement, in other words--both sides reserving the right to go nuts on the other one of these weeks, if we're not careful.
Enjoy the apples, Angel.
Postscript: Angel has two kinds of memory, short (forget who chased you ten seconds ago) and long (flightpath and return).