Life Stinks (Part Three) Except When it Doesn't (Part One)

Welcome to my El Sicko life. Pills and potions and orange juice (belatedly trying to get a vitamin C boost to "stay well" ha ha). In the background, my fantasy son David Archuleta singing a Dolly Parton song about Jesus and living on credit and going North but missing the old folks at home and stuff, but in my mind, singing directly to me to urge me (His Fantasy Mother) not to throw myself to the coyotes tonight.

Oh. Bronco survived the night. I hope the suspense wasn't overly excruciating. I can hardly believe that I didn't hold him by the paw and escort him on his pee run. He is pretty cute and friendly, though, and he might be able to talk a pack of hungry coyotes into playing Marco Polo or something. That reminds me. When The Girls were here, I was calling Bronco inside and here's what happened--oh those zany Girls, well, really, it was just Zany Evelyn (Not Her Real Name):

Me: "Bronco!"

Voice from another room: "Polo!"

Anyway. I feel a little bit guilty about sending Bronco into the night with the hungry pack on the hill, but we do have a fenced yard and so far the coyotes haven't breached the barricades. So please call off Tiny the animal control agent. I promise not to do that again. Unless I am disabled by the Sore Throat of Death again.

Since I strive to hew to the maxim that "it's an ill wind that blows no good," I have been trying to think of what might be good about being sick and miserable, not to mention a tad cranky. Well. I find it's a good time to use up the cans of salmon-flavored dog food because my sense of smell isn't very good. And let me tell you one thing.

Don't buy the salmon-flavored dog food. If you are going to feed a pet something that smells so vile, you might as well have a cat, and then you wouldn't have to worry about it going outside in the middle of the night and getting eaten by coyotes.

Because it's a cat.