I worked at a conference yesterday. It was fun to see people and wear real clothes. But someone breathed on me. And it’s February.
I woke up with a raging headache and a stuffy nose.
Since the drugs I can take for a cold right now don’t actually do anything, I decided not to get sick. I declared a pajama day and signed up for round the clock purr therapy.
Doctor Obi took a shift in the morning and one in the afternoon.
Doctor Oliver took breakfast, lunch and after dinner.
Of course, being self employed means there no such thing as a whole day off. After dinner I grabbed a computer and covered some small tasks.
Doctor Oliver continued my purr therapy while I worked.
Our strategy worked. I feel better already.
Are you getting my good side?
I asked Obi to snuggle with me because Oliver was missing during the Super Bowl. He told me to dream on.
I called Oliver. I called and called.
The grey kitten arrived in the fourth quarter but did not snuggle. He joined his brother under the coffee table.
After the game, as we were all in the kitchen, the truth came out: we may live in Bronco Country but they were rooting for the cats. Genus before region, you see.
Can’t fault them for that.
I didn’t get a snow day. Neither did The Boy. But nine inches of snow did shift our schedules a bit.
For instance, The Boy got up, fed the cats, saw they had a delayed start at work and can’t back to bed. Then I got up to see if I had to go to jury duty at 8 a.m. This made Oliver happy because The Boy’s half of the bed is where the grey kitten sleeps after breakfast on Tuesday when The Boy gets up early to go to the gym. Couch snuggle for the win.
Jury duty was delayed until noon. I have myself half an hour to drive the one and a half miles to the courthouse. I made it…twenty feet. I spent my half hour digging my car out of the alley by the house where it got high centered on snow. Kitten Thunder doesn’t approve of me leaving the house but at least I made them some interesting OutTV. I still made it to the courthouse only five minutes late.
There are many people looking forward to the baby kicking my cats in the head. I’m giving you all the benefit of the doubt. I’m assuming you, like The Boy, think their reaction will be funny and that you don’t just hate my kittens. Well, the baby is trying. This morning he kicked Oliver in the face for ten solid minutes. Tonight he kicked Obi in the armpit. Alas, baby is not strong enough to be felt on the outside quite yet. But I know he’s trying.
I’m proud of myself for this, but I can’t really explain why. While wielding the magic toy making stick this weekend, I found a lid to a shoebox under the couch. The wheels in my head, they turned.
Of course I put a box under the coffee table.
Of course it’s Obi’s favorite place ever.
Poor Oliver, he has no legs.
He was trying to help. Help himself to The Boy’s dinner, but help.
Now he’s in trouble.
Not a lot of trouble. It’s kind of hard to punish him more than not letting him lick the plates when he wasn’t going to be allowed to lock the plates anyway.
But woe is Oliver anyway.
We’ve got tough decisions to make here in the Thunder household. Like: which of these bedspreads do we like better?
Of course I don’t make these decisions on my own. The Boy couldn’t care less. But Kitten Thunder has opinions.
I bought both and brought them home to compare to the rug and other fabrics. And for the kittehs’ opinions.
Obviously they choose this one. The other one is wrapped in plastic. How are they supposed to get hair on it?
I also choose that one, it happens.
Obi’s glad… Even hours later.
What’s it to you? Why do you care if he’s upstairs or down? I mean really, isn’t that between him and Obi?