I am not squeamish. I also like to believe that when faced with life-threatening situations I will be quite brave. In fact one of my favourite, recurring superhero-type day dreams involves us (random people and me) being hijacked -- as in train/plane/car -- by terrorists*. So I indulge in some hand-to-hand combat and save the day. However, sometimes the dream gets muddled in technical details. Like, how many terrorists can I handle at once? Maybe kick one in the groin, poke another in the eye...what happens if there's a third one and he shoots me in the head? Or if one of them has dynamite or something strapped around him?
In another dream, the pilot faints and I have to fly the plane reading How To Fly A Plane In An Emergency manual. I bet I can do it. It's a plane after all, not Twitter that you cannot figure it out. Like on Twitter, I know RT means re-Tweet, what the heck does "#" mean?! There. I've committed twittricide (twitter+suicide) by announcing I can't figure the "#". Is it "f##k I don't f######g understand it?"
Anywho. The point of all this is:
1. I am procrastinating finishing another assingment. I've done the requisite research but can't be bothered about writing it down. Hopefully the can't-be-bothered mood will pass and I will maintain the deadline.
2. Billy got two shots today. :( One was a little one but the other needle was the size of his paw. Poor thing. I didn't go of course - (assignments) -- Partner took him to the vet. The vet says Billy also has worms and that we are "not nourishing him properly". I am in shock. He eats SO much. (fat cat) We are apparently feeding him the wrong things. Tuna+cod? Chicken+veal? Dude, that's better than what I eat.
Partner says Billy cried really loudly. Apparently the nurses at the vet's found Billy really cute. (Hmph. Have a feeling it might have something to do with Billy's dadda). Ever since he's been back, Billy has been really slow -- as against jumping on everything, running around the house and giving me a new scratch, in a new spot -- and looks all sad.
I know exactly how Billy feels. I hate injections. The sight of them more than the pain of them. Once poked, of course I hate the pain of them too. I hate sad faces on kittens even more.
The vet has also asked us to "look at" Billy's potty for worms. Why? So they don't crawl back?!
PS: *Before anyone says that I am being disrespectful about terrorism or being hijacked. I am not. It's a dream. I cannot control dreams. If I could control dreams, I would be single, Wolverine be real and single. We would meet in a bar and have a one-night stand and forget. Then meet again every night and have one-night stands so neither of us would get bored. And oh, his claws will be detachable.
PS 2: What's the name for checking your pet/child's shit for worms? Peek-a-poo.