Wuss hopped up on my lap yesterday evening and took a piss. Or, I guess more accurately, leaked a bit. More than a bit. I usually change into an old pair of pants in the evenings, but last night I was wearing a newly washed pair of jeans. The new thinner me jeans. Check the rugs. Get out the bottle of cat piss cleaner. Check the bed: dry, thank God. Feed him another pill, one in the morning, one in the evening. I'm still encouraged. (There's an unruly optimism here, don't you think?) Overall he seems better and the young veterinary student who called the other night mentioned it took time to take effect, a week, a month, no way to predict.

The rumor is we will hear tomorrow or at the latest next week how many of us will be laid off. Word is the honcho in charge wants us off his budget by the end of the year, so they're not waiting to give us the news until after Christmas. I think this rumor is true as it fits the business methodologies they use around here. Maybe I'm history, maybe not. It's hard to see why they kept us on in the first place after announcing our section was history. These people don't spend a penny without a reason. Might be a bad reason, might be a good reason, but they don't keep people around for which they have no need. The prostate cancer thing complicates this, of course, but I'm just going to go with the flow. If I'm out of work lying in a hospital, well then, I still have insurance, and life is just giving me one of its little lessons. Life is full of little lessons.

This is being written Thursday evening, by the way. I'm not going into a Wuss report. Spots here, spots there, spots, well, not everywhere, but you get the drift. I was sitting at my desk today working on a web page when I noticed the barest whiff of kitty cat piss. I think it was on my watch. I washed my watch. The clothes were clean, but I'm sitting here typing and I think my chair is maybe cat piss history. Or is it the desktop? A-lop? It reaches the point at some point when all you can do is laugh. And keep on writing.