Physiotherapy

Stretch that shoulder

The newbie

The personal trainer

Post We Must. . .

. . . or we get nagged.

I'm sleeping on the sofa because. . .

Nick is down with the flu or the gastro, he's not sure which. This is his third day in bed. Tomorrow I call the doctor. He doesn't want to drag her out today and, besides, the pharmacy is closed.

I'm feeling marginally better, although I have no desire to do anything except rest and read. This is good for my new blog, 25 Words or Less on Books (see sidebar), but not so great for walkies.

Van-Ly is mad at me because she's used to having breakfast at 7:30 and I don't get up until (mumble, mumble, mumble). The sofa is pretty comfortable for sleeping.

The cats are on a modified hunger strike. If they can't have breakfast on time, they don't want it.

Nala doesn't mind late meals; she just sleeps, wakes up to eat, sleeps. Her eyes are a mess, again, filling with gunk faster than I can clean them. I fear she needs another operation. And walkies.

Altogether, a bummed out household.

Sunday

I have a cold and a sore throat; woke up late and grumpy.
My tea was cold. I went downstairs to get some more.
Watched from the kitchen window, waiting for the tea.

Nick came into view with the washing.
Van-Ly arrived, wagging her tail, nuzzling him.
He gave her a massage/scratch around the neck.

Mr. Pibbs and Postal wrestled in the rock garden.
Mr. Pibbs left off wrestling and went to Nick.
Nick scratched both, one hand for each.

Nala arrived, plopped down two meters away, wagging her tail.
Nick went over and gave her a scratch.

Van-Ly followed. Me, too! Me, too!
One-handed scratch for each.

Miosa jumped into the laundry basket to play.
Nick removed her from the clean laundry.

Van-Ly chased Mr. Pibbs.

Postal played in the rock garden.

The sun is shining.
All's right with the world.