37/1 (part 3) Bits, bobs & blurghies

Last night was a bitch. The reflux drives me to the antacids most nights, and last night was so bad I hit it again about 2.30am in sleepless desperation.

Then got woken less than 20 minutes later when the old bod decided to re-enact *that* scene from The Exorcist (not the head-turny one).

Blurgh! It was just an overexuberance of eviction, no fever or other ills, but enough to see me in the shower at 3am, and Wayne being his usual wonderful helpful self. (It looks like he's going to be one of those wonderful parents who can deal with ANY horrible surprise a nappy might throw at him!)

One good thing came out of it (excuse pun): we've named the cat.

"Horse".

It was too obvious for words, particularly when he was completely unaffected by the stampeding vomiting hippo that flounced past him as he cleaned out the cat food bowl for the umpteenth time that day.

(If you haven't read Footrot Flats, "Horse" is the name of the monster cat who ruled the farm, terrified even the meanest pig dogs, and yet was capable of great acts of depth and intellect IF he felt like it.)

Horse also broke a cardinal rule the other day and cleaned Mako's clock. That is, if you consider seeing one cat pick up another cat and throw him like a pro wrestler across the hall and into the lounge "clock cleaning". Not a fang was bared nor a claw distended, but Mako has decided that the new big grey thing is not to be snotted-off at.

As no blood was spilt, I didn't revoke his residency. Of course, the fact that Horse looked me straight in the eye afterwards, then gave me a very impressive eye roll and head-toss in Mako's direction didn't have a thing to do with it.

Nah.. not bloody half ;-) Mako is my darling but he's a typical teenage snot and as kittyslaps go, that was quite moderate.

On the not so fun front, Step MIL is not doing at all well. We visited her in ICU yesterday and felt overwhelmed with helplessness. How the staff of that ward cope, I have no idea. Walking past all those deathbed cubicles was hard enough, but seeing the breathing dead in nearly every bed was horrific.

I'm a wimp, I admit it. If I can't fix something, and can't think of a way to at least *help*, then I avoid the situation as much as possible. I took Denise's hand and chatted to her about the baby, Denise's dog, happenings in the garden and the things Denise would have been interested in had she been conscious, but I think it was all probably for our benefit more than hers. Something to break the awful silence between machinery blips and the desperate murmurs of those in surrounding cubicles.

What she needed was for a miracle to make her better, and I'm fresh out of those.

But while there's life, there's hope. So let's sit on a cliche and hope it floats like hope.

Newsflash: Wayne has had to physically and forcibly remove Horse from the catfood bowls because he's eaten more than his and an army's share, and keeps insisting he's still hungry. Horse is still what we would consider "thin" and he weighs 7.5 kilograms. Being an old cat, we'd prefer that he put on weight in slightly more time than just over the course of one night, but being a cat, of course he knows better.

Presently he's sitting vigil at the hallway door, moaning that his belly thinks his throat is cut. We should be very afraid.. this cat is big enough, and hungry enough, to eat both of us as we sleep.