For the record, I've decided that Buddy was misnamed, by me. Instead of following Fred's advice of waiting for the cat to name itself, I rushed and forced "Buddy" upon him. He is clearly a "Bubba." Whatever the case, he answers to bonito flakes. We are actually concerned now that he is not putting on sufficient weight to compensate for the alarming length he has acquired. He's a thin guy, not a swarthy molecule to my Bubba, no.
The great thing about finding blood in your PICC lines for the third or fourth times, is that it is the third or fourth time, and you didn't expire during those first few incidences, so likelihood is in your favor.
Also, I was all wrapped up in this warm dream about being offered $3 million by some lawyer that my infectious disease dood introduced to me, in a meeting with him, both of my PAs (Jacqueline and Susan), the wondrous on-site pharmacist (Lauren), and yes, this swell dude in a three-piece tweed suit and a bowler. No shit! Very clever and full of excitement, I had Fred drive us to the Best Credit Union West of the Lone Alp in Tête de Hergé. He was pretty pissed (in real life as in my sleeping version) at me for bossing him around, didn't want to go to the Credit Union. I don't know why, they love him there. He shows them his sweet, shy side and is sweet on Ruth, the Head Credit Union Honchette.
They have lots of rocking chairs, braided rugs, beautiful quilts on the walls, chocolate cookies and milk in one corner, also a cage for toddlers disguised as a welcoming play pen.
Anyway, I zoomed into my banking institution, gave Ruth the eye, and she and I left Fred in a rocking chair with a spare Credit Union cat and an experimental latte (they're trying out a bikini barista -- bikinis à la Annette Funicello).
|Framed art print for sale at eu.artcom|