Zappa’s still not eating or drinking but I was able to give him his antacid last night–and coated in a bit of baby food! Sneaky Mom. He hadn’t groomed himself since falling ill so brushed him a few times and he loved it. His fur looks clean and shiny again. Bonus: Ziggy saw the brush and waited as patiently as he could for a session, followed by Breenie. Now they’ve all shared the brush (kind of a kitty version of a blood oath) everyone’s more relaxed. I bet there’d be less war if differing factions came together and brushed each other’s hair.

Unfortunately, after gently rocking Zappa in my arms 5-7 minutes to make sure the medicine went down–kitties created sneakiness–the right side of my neck froze. Literally. Well, ice hasn’t formed on it, though that would be awesome, actually, but I can’t turn or move my head or swallow without a great deal of pain. “Crying out pain.” I’d have to pay for “crying out sex” but it’s BOGO for me in the pain department. Sheesh.

As you might imagine, I paid (ah, not so BOGO after all!) dearly in the “good night’s sleep” department. Does that department even exist anymore? It’s as hard to find as a Kmart, not that I’m really looking for a Kmart but you know what I mean. I did see one, a Kmart, last week when Patricia drove Zappa and me to the first vet in Oxen Hill, wherever that is, well, besides Maryland.  I know it’s in Maryland.

To illustrate how chronic lack of sleep impairs, you know, LIVING, picture the 43YOV writing in her journal as per usual one morning last week–the three pages of stream of consciousness (ha! conscious, that’s funny). She’s completed a sentence with the requisite period, the next to begin with “I.” Except that the stream’s suddenly blocked by the worrisome realization that she’s forgotten how to write a cursive “I.” I was shocked, too, probably more so than those reading this who weren’t taught cursive (if I was in a grave I’d turn in it, albeit slowly and crying out in pain).

As I pondered the possibility of having sustained the world’s first painless massive stroke I penned a few “Ts” and “Fs” before the MIA “I” revealed itself in the old brain box. If this keeps up I’ll need a bib and a live-in nurse.

So, who do I call to complete my “to a normal person this is nothing” to-do list? I’ll drop some hints. His name starts with “D” (that is a “D,” right?) and ends with a “D.” My friends have done a lot for me already. I’d like to give them Presidents’ Day off to honor Presidents (snort). I love him and wish him peace every day but aim to break down any resistance with “You’ve got house guests? Gee, I’ve got lung cancer, a dying cat and can’t move my head. When can I expect you?”

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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