For the last few days I’ve been shabby grubby sick.
You know the kind I mean. Propped up on pillows in bed, amongst piles of used tissues and depending on others to prepare food for you or just eating out of the can. Forget about proper hygiene.
I am showered and in a fresh flannel night gown at the moment, with a cup of tea and honey at my side.
So being on a more presentable level I decided to pop my head out of the covers and say ‘Hi’ while my hair dries.
Okay I am still wrapped in a blanket while I type with one finger, because one hand is holding the blanket on and closed around my shoulders. (Ignore the rapidly growing pile of tissues on the floor. The steam in the bathroom made my red nose run even more.)
Mountain Man brought Sir Laidback to the Vet for his recheck. The dog is still on his meds, but doing much better. He is not scratching near as much and playing with (Okay, hogging) the dog toys more. This is to Lady Long (the dashund)’s long suffering, eye rolling disgust.
The Vet thinks Sir Laidback is closer to seven years old rather than five as we were told at the SPCA.
No other new news at Deathwatch Manor. The world kept on turning while I slept. I’ll look in on you in a few days when I’m not feeling as dreadful.
Until then, Happy Holidays everybody.