The other day I came home from work -- fighting the flu or an infection, exhausted and knowing I can't take any time off of work for a few days.
I am so done. All I want to do is cry. Then curl up with tea or cocoa and look at my Christmas tree (yes, it's still up), snug with Lizzie Cosette (always brief -- she isn't a lapper), read a book, watch something on telly that requires no mental participation and fall asleep as soon as possible.
So, I walked in the door and Lizzie is yowling as she always does when I come home, not for the joy of seeing me but for the promise of her measly bit of wet-food dinner.
"Bon soir, Lizzie," I say as I usually do. "Comment ca va?"
And she says, "Oy, whadda day I had today!"
"What did you do?" I note the rug in the hall is scrunched up.
"Well, I had breakfast. And then I took a nap. And then I went downstairs to pee and poop. And then I took a nap."
"Wow. What else?"
"First, I looked for my mouse in the chair."
"Then I stretched -- and then I watched the birds and that rapscallion Bushy the Squirrel at the bird feeder."
"How was that?"
"Same ol', same ol'. Then I took a nap.
"No. I tried kicking around some of the low ornaments on the tree..."
"And then I started jumping in the pillows on your bed. They're fun.
And as long as I was there, I took a nap."
"Then I came in, right?"
And then I took a bath.
"Then I took a nap.
And then I pushed one of your Ricola off the night table and kicked it around. And then I took a nap.
I'm SO glad you're home. I'm starving!"
I think I want my cat's life.