For those of you on low bandwith, here's a list of the photos. You can pull them up one at a time and get back to the list by hitting your back button. Have fun. I did.
Just felt like getting these on the web tonight. Enjoy.
This is Gracie's newest favorite place. She likes to hop up here and rub her face on the post while I pet or brush her. She held that pose for quite a while. I think she's turning into a ham.
There is a box on my sofa. It came from Pennsylvania (Lynn B.'s house) to hold things in my car. Tig wanted desperately to be in it tonight, but couldn't figure out how to get the cellophane wrappings out of it, and didn't want to sleep on them. So I removed them, and he instantly curled up in a box that is really too small for him, and went to sleep. permalink
I have nothing to say this morning. Do you know why I have nothing to say this morning? It is due to a lack of sleep. I have been on a bad sleep cycle for a couple of weeks now, staying up later and later each night. That happens sometimes, and it's usually because there is something bothering me, and I can't figure out what it is and I know damned well I'm going to eventually have a dream about it and then wake up and go, "WTF was that dream all about?" and about three hours later, go, "OH!" and figure out what is bothering me.
But that isn't why I haven't gotten any sleep lately. I haven't gotten much sleep lately because Tig has some kind of wound on his left haunch (don't worry, Ellen, I've decided it's time for the vet and even found his records from my vet in NJ), and every hour or two during the night, he cleans it. Loudly. While sitting in bed next to me. (Mind you, it doesn't seem to bother him at all during the day. Only the night.) So I've been banishing him from the bedroom. He knows the phrase "Beat it" means "Go away. Now." So last night, he started loudly grooming himself (he must have decided that it was really fun to wake me up, so now he'd try keeping me awake for about an hour while he thoroughly groomed his entire body), I said, "Beat it," he huffily left the bed and disappeared for long enough for me to fall asleep. So at 6:44 this morning, I am awakened by a few soft mrowrs coming from somewhere off the bed. I open my eyes, knowing full well it's not going to be a decent hour of the morning, to look at the clock on the nighttable next to the bed. And see Tig lying across the nighttable quite grandly, with an enormously smug expression on his face because he knows damned well the nighttable is off limits, and he has been sleeping on it while I was asleep, and he sees me open my eyes and turn and says, "Mrowr?" which, of course means, "Gotcha!" in cat talk. I ignored him. He walked onto the bed and leaped over me to his side of the bed. And went back to sleep, while I lay there, trying unsuccessfully to go back to sleep.
Which is why I have nothing to say this morning. I'm effing exhausted. Tig, of course, is highly rested. Bastard. permalink
|(c) 2002, 2003 Meryl Yourish|