My personal stash is running low. Time to plan another dye fest.
Grrrr. After arriving on time and waiting 45 minutes only to hear there were five patients ahead of me, I gave the receptionist a "fuck this shit" face and told her I was out. She commiserated silently - the waiting room was packed. I will call to reschedule. On with a quiet day.
All the wandering hearts may have been practice for this: ripping some hearts out of a UFO whose days were numbered. There are lots of those laying around.
The same thing is likely for the story I've been wrangling.
The heart has been obscured by plot wriggling. It may even be missing.
I stitch or read. Think about writing. We play cards and listen to music. The most remarkable thing? The boy has taken a liking to Jazz. Old school jazz. Oscar Peterson, Lester Young, Coleman Hawkins. Of course, he heard it all from the days when he was in the crook of my arm.
When the sun gets past the yardarm and there's some shade we enjoy a nearby pool. Just us. They go back to school next Friday.
She'll be just fine, in time, according to the vet.
Colin couldn't find her when he got home from work. The little girl wasn't missing at all but locked out on the high deck because I didn't look twice and was hurrying to get out of Dodge. I feel terrible.
No one saw it happen but she had a compression fracture of her right wrist due to a fall and lousy landing. Bad landings are the only kind Camilla has, even from a chair to the floor, due to her rough start in life. I have never seen a clumsier cat.
The X-rays were straightforward. The same cluster of bones we break when we put out a hand to catch a fall was pretty jumbled up. He said with rest and inactivity they would mostly sort themselves out. To help the healing they administered a high-powered painkiller that will last up to a week. The little girl is stoned out of her gourd and getting a Masters degree in chilling out.