The Castafiore came bouncing (on a pogo stick) into our bedroom, bypassing the elite security system we'd installed for just such occasions -- but it is tricked, apparently, by the pogo stick -- leapt off the leaping pole and dove into the middle of a bed that was perfectly arranged for perfect sleep, cats strategically placed for warmth, soft hood on my head, music softly playing in my ears -- I forgot to set the sleep mode -- and Fred tremulously sn-sn-snoring. My legs were even covered, feet the exception.
But a Bonne et Belle Bianca flying through the air, slingshotted by a pogo stick, landing -- and the only adverb possible is fortuitously -- fortuitously in between a now frightened Fred and moi, missing the feline's major organs? That's a game-changer, a mood-breaker, a sleep-assassin.
"B'blasketballs!" she yells. "Drugs," I think.
"What the fuck are you on?" screams Fred, saying what I think. That can get old, Fred saying what I think.
"Merde, alors! I do not need no stinkifying drogues," she says, hurt to her very substantial core.
So we gave in and up, and made plans for a Sunday of March Madness. UNC will be demolished by Kansas, Dukiedum will, if it pleases the Lord, destroy Creighton. That's all I care about, though I'll scope out the other 28 whenever she releases us from this pinned and smushed position.
I wish I knew something about betting. It's gotta be a surer, purer thing than the market. Remember how I bailed on Google at 700? Have you looked at it lately? And people want to know why I weep!
"Bianca, love, if you're going to be here long, pinning and smushing us like iridescent dragon flies pinned inside a second-grader's shoe box, at least take off your shoes, hmm?"
And hot pink wedgies go flying across the room, one landing, spinning as would a horseshoe clinging to its lucky spike, on my goddamned jewelry tree. It's a real tree, now minus one branch, with tiny silver earrings scatter about, the perfect size for a cat to swallow.
[I once performed the Heimlich maneuver on tiny Dobby but I haven't renewed my Advanced Cat Life Saving credentials since then.]
Guess who has a raging ear infection? Not me! Shock! Poor Fred has been waltzing around all week, yelling that he can't hear out of one ear. And then, as the genetically indentured Haddock Domestic Staff, Bianca, Sven, Cabana Boy, and I all fainted, he announced he was going to the doctor. I fainted from low hemoglobin, don't know what those others were passed out about...
He had no pain, no fever, no dizziness. He was crabby, but within normal limits. Ah, but he did decline to go dancing with the whore, Ms. Kitty, and that must mean something. He also marched himself quite smartly out of E-Cong last Sunday, pissed off at the continued desecration of the Christian religion, which he holds near and dear, so long as it is being maligned by Militant Existential Lesbian Feminists. Otherwise, he could give a royal shit, though he, like I, harbored the secret hope of being announced pope.
Anyway -- the very best segue! -- he finally was deaf enough to seek help. And was found to have a raging infection and not just in the one ear of note, but in both!
Since he discovered that he has An Illness, he has become weak and haggard, requiring subtle infantilization, and the kind of TLC that only someone who has loved him for 23 years can provide. So I cooked him some chicken, and made sure he took his amoxicillen, and assured him that his ear ache was the worst ever discovered west of the Lone Alp -- the news was all over the wires, AP, Reuters, Vie-en-Tête-de-Hergé and being broadcast every 20 minutes by the inimitable Tante Louise.
No... he's been very brave, and hasn't complained one whit.
Oomph. Knee to the groin by Bianca, who has joined in with the tremulous snoring pattern, sn-sn-snore with the addition of a soft, excited "f'blasket, f'blasket, f'blasketball...."
I should blow a whistle in her ear and yell "foul."
I should get a one and one free throw. I might miss the golden opportunity for two, should the first one land upside her head...