Hold Your Breath
Taking Wuss off the pills that the Davis people had given me to tighten up his bladder and then feeding him antibiotics and new pills to "loosen" up his bladder (go figure), seems to have worked. The vet says he's just old and tired and will probably only live another year or two anyway, so fence him out of places I don't want him to pee and make do.
Why sure. Old, you say? Another year or two? Time, methinks, for another trip to Davis and a second opinion. Otherwise, he's well and eating like a small supercharged garbage disposal that's unfortunately lost its connection to the pipe. So he's erratic. And old. Why do I sense some sympathy inside?
Half the people and most of the managers at the company are on vacation this week, so things are slow. Time to catch up on old projects and take longer lunches. Leave work early and take the cat to the vet. Tomorrow I was thinking of signing up for a beginning photography class at a local college to get into the darkroom again, so I'll take the car to work tomorrow, leave early and go by their office to pay the fee. Cause if I don't do it tomorrow, I'll never do it.
This is culturally correct California and an even more culturally - ethnically - politically hip college and they'll be happy to see an old fart doddle through the door. They need an old fart or two to make their demographics. And it should be fun. So maybe I'll do it. But don't hold your breath.
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