Andare, Partire, Tornare ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I may have to change his name to \"Jesus\" So I get home from work yesterday to find Bemo in the throes of the worst migraine he's ever had. He's standing in the bathroom, nauseated, light and sound sensitive, and with a head that feels like a railroad spike has been driven through his left eye. Oh, and he's got the chills. I help him back into bed, start a series of hot washcloths on his face, which seem to help, and then run off to Target to buy a thermometer, because we haven't had one for approximately five years. (Did you know that glass thermometers are scarce, now? Target didn't have any on the shelves at all, but a cheap digital one is only about two bucks. Huh. I spent all that time learning to read glass thermometers for nothing.) Bemo's not running a fever, but he's miserable, so I hang out with him for a while. Then I potter around the house (forgetting that I'm supposed to be making pasta salad for an office party, which results in my spending an assload on deli counter pasta salad this morning). And then I go to bed. Only to wake up about a half-hour later, because I have heard an ominous noise. A noise I subconsciously recognize. I walk out into the living room, blind because I don't have my glasses on, still half-asleep, to see my small fishbowl with Ahab the betta fish has been pushed off the bookshelf where it sat for a while before I moved it into the bedroom and then back out to the bookshelf because the bedroom is colder and Ahab was going all torpid and not eating. The room is a scene of disaster, with a plant and gravel and water everywhere. A certain white kitten is spotted hiding under a chair, hoping I don't see her. I run to get my glasses and paper towels, because of course, there's fish water all over my books, and I'm simultaneously really sad that my fish is most certainly dead (either eaten or suffocated) but I really don't want to put my hand down on him because ewwww, and I'm also feeling guilty because if I hadn't moved the bowl out of the bedroom, my fish would be alive today WOE. I spot Ahab on the floor, scoop him up in a little plastic cup, and... He's still alive as of this morning, and he ate cheerfully. I may have an immortal fish on my hands. The kitten tried to gain my forgiveness by vigorously massaging my spleen this morning at five am, which indicates that she really has learned nothing at all from the incident. 8:58 a.m. - 2005-05-27 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||