Jones and I are sick. Sadly so.
Me, I only have a sore throat and a sinus thingy. My throat is sore enough to feel like I’m swallowing shards of glass and my head feels fragile, like it will shatter if I move too quickly. Or blink. I should have known better. The weekend started with itchy eyes and sentences punctuated by staccato sneezes. Allergies, I thought. Kisa gets this way by July. April and May used to be my cruelest months, although not recently. I completely ignored the signs. Felt worse by the day until I needed a day off from my life. Couch-bound I slept for hours.
Jones. Ah, Jones. He hasn’t been right for days. Dragging his ass on the carpet. Excessive cleaning where the sun don’t shine. Countless trips to the men’s room. Finally Kisa hauled him off to the vet while I waved a weary hand and croaked, “have fun” from the couch. They were back in record time. Triumphant. “Jones needed to express himself!” Kisa crowed proudly. What? “He couldn’t do it so the vet expressed for him!” I’m still picturing Madonna voguing. I’m confused. Jones crawled out of the cat carrier, a look of irritation on his face. Oh. I’m still confused. With one wary eye on Jones and a dubious ear towards Kisa I listened to him explain expression. I’m beginning to get it and just as I say as much, Jones flops over to lick his azz.
I’m glad one of us is feeling better.