I Could Get So Serious

A watchful Topaz

The weekend wore me out, I admit. This morning, I dreamed of my grandmother's apartment. In it, I found people I knew setting up a promising business. One of them was Morgan. Another was a friend who is now in the diplomatic service. Two women were friends of a friend. The decor my grandmother painstakingly put into place more than twenty years ago was starting to fall apart. In the dream, I knew this was not possible. I sat on the floor with them and made pointed remarks. When I woke up, I was sure I'd written something on the blog I had to correct, but it wasn't true.

Defenseless toy.

Over the weekend, we stopped at a pet store and bought new cat toys. The living room floor is littered with sticks inexplicably glued to feathers, which contraptions are irresistible to our cat friends. A week ago, the cats, Pete and I made a traumatic trip to the veterinarian. Topaz got antibiotics, Drusy got an anti-emetic shot to stop her from yakking. Pete got an eye-opening education about stuffing cats into boxes. I came away with scratches up and down both arms. a split lip and my confidence shaken.

Drusy, demanding I quit loafing and play with her.

So we were mostly okay until yesterday, when Drusy once again tossed her waffles twice. This morning, when I called the vet I expected bad news. I was prepared for bad news. The thing is: Drusy and Topaz were chasing each other from one end of the apartment to the other, back and forth, at top speed. While it was a little annoying to wake up to, it was an utter revelation. I mentioned this to the vet. "She's playing and tumbling and her eyes are bright." He seemed startled. He said I should keep track of when she throws up again, but unless it's more than a few times a week, I shouldn't worry. She might still be sick, but we can't know. I am still trying to calm down. My job here is scribe, not prognosticator.

You'd think I'd know that by now.