Tuesday, March 20, 2012


The cats don't understand why their human has become a slow-moving clod. They look at me with disapproval as I stump around on my swollen foot, as if I am making poor choices.

Possum regarded my bright-blue cold pack with suspicion last night as he lay by my feet on the bed. He sniffed it, prodded it with a paw, and gave it an exploratory bite or two before I made him stop. I think he'd decided it was the reason I was limping. If he took care of it for me, perhaps I'd give it up and snap back to normal, able to leap up and march obediently into the kitchen behind him to give him more supper.

Instead I have a cold pack that leaks blue goop onto my sock.

I guess I'll go back to bed. I'll bet it was a beautiful day — I heard the birds chirping their heads off — but I didn't mind spending it in a nightgown and ace bandage, reading about Downton Abbey.  I keep ringing for my imaginary servants; they certainly take their sweet time in this confusing and hectic post-World War era.

Possum pensively waits for his person to recover.

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