Friday, March 26, 2010

A Happy Ducky Friday

Guess what? It’s Friday. Weeee! Tomorrow is the Portland Vampire Masquerade Ball. I have about as much enthusiasm for a costumed event right now as I would feel for having my fingers gnawed off by rats… however, since my old school friend Kaia is going, I cannot NOT go. She lives in Seattle, and she is one of the very few people from my strange and bleak youth whose friendship was worth renewing. Ah the beauty of Facebook. I didn’t make a lot of school-friends in the DOD school days… so I value very much that Kaia hunted me down and made the effort to attend the 12th night supper on January 9th. Now she is on the hunt for corsets and tulle for this vampire thing. She even got teeth. I *may* get fake eyelashes… or not. ::shrug:: Meh.

I will recycle the costume I wore for the Transylvanian Ball last year; but likely do something different with my hair, I’m not sure. I'm not sure if my little blackbird will make a reappearance (yes, I stuck a fake raven in my hair). I will also have to figure out how to secure the evil falling skirts that caused the costume malfunction last time. I also need to bind the bottom of the corset because by the end of the night, the boning was falling out. I have to do all this before tomorrow evening.

I will post a pic or two if there are any worth posting. It’s a strange event full of really interesting people. I look forward to seeing some familiar faces in addition to Kaia, so it won’t be too bad I hope.

Anyway… They’re back again. The ducks have begun to return to the little food pile and blue bucket outside my window. I’ve been keeping it well supplied in order to encourage the lady duck to bring her brood of fuzzy babies when she does hatch them out. I don’t recall if we got any ducklings last year at all.

There hasn’t been a flurry of duck-violence as there has been in the past years… Mr. Mallard has only had to fend off the odd crow so far, and one other mallard that gave up very easily. Maybe there’s a glut of fertile, genetically superior duck babes for the boys to choose from this year.. I dunno. The spring of 2007 was Gang-rape-ville… seriously. One little she-duck had nearly a bare head from all the having all the feathers torn from it by the beaks of her attackers. Gangs of five or six mallards would take turns distracting her chosen mate while others attacked her. It was horrific. I am still emotionally scarred by that year; even though it did bring a bumper crop of moms and ducklings (which were subsequently hunted down to dwindling numbers by crows and various other predators… quite depressing). This is a yearly drama that I call “As the Creek Flows”.

So naturally, today’s Friday Office Special is all about les canards. ;) Have a peachy weekend.


Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Cow Tipping and Beer

I learned about cow-tipping from an Admiral’s son. Young Mr. Hogg… worked for a summer at our horse stable, helping clean stalls and feed horses and huck hay and straw. His dad showed up one day to the stable, elegant in his Navy whites, not even wincing when I walked up to him covered in hay-dust and dirt—he shook my hand and said: “good, hard, dirty work improves the soul…” He arranged with my mother for his son to work for us for the summer.

He spent the summer among my entourage of townie friends—teaching us all college drinking games, like quarters and a game that involved beer in ice-cube trays, straws and a race to each end… Our riding club had a bar with beers bottled and on tap. We were all regular imbibers of beer; Belgium is all about beer… hundreds of varieties; it was and still is the best thirst-killing beverage on hot summer days when you’re out throwing bales. My tolerance for drinking has faded a lot since those days, but back then, it was part of our lives, it was a large bottle of table beer during dinner, it was a pils between giving riding lessons… even though most of us were in our mid-to-late teens, we drank a lot. American kids though, they’d find themselves suddenly free beyond their dreams, and often got in trouble over-indulging in the lax drinking laws. With 20 Frank (25cent) beers being served at the town sport hall weekend parties, it was old hat for us. However, Jim had many of us drunker than we’d ever been—just because he introduced stupid games, and encouraged us to drink far in excess to what we would normally do. He was college frat boy in so many senses… something I’d never experienced until he came along.

He then told us about cow-tipping. None of us believed it of course. Jim took off to travel around Europe for a few weeks in a junky little car, and one night, the group of us decided we were going to try this cow tipping thing. We fueled up on Duvel beer and rode our mopeds and motorcycles down the road to one of the many farms around the stable, and a couple of the boys vanished over the fence. All us girls could hear in the darkness was their questionable attempt to be stealthy while snickering and stumbling. Then we heard a terrifying sounding snort, and then the horrified cries of the boys and their running flight followed by thundering cloven hooves. It was the cliché. The only denizen in the field was the biggest bull we’d ever seen. They flipped over the top wire of the fence in time to escape the groggy bull, and they lay there both moaning in pain from the barbed wire and laughing at the same time.

Two of our friends had decided to go to a club a couple of miles from the stable rather than tip cows. On our way back from our cow-tipping adventure, we ran into those two. They were staggering side by side up the street towards the stable dragging a street-sign complete with concrete ball still on the end. We put the street sign inside the stable gates, and then all piled into Johnny’s car (a tremendous feat) and drove to Leuven to have mussels at an all-night restaurant. All of those guys are on my mind today. Jim, of course… Johnny, Lekkes, Kristof, Bastin, Alain, Kurt, Cacahouette, Veerle… What fun we had together; a ragtag bunch of aimless crazy farmer kids with visions of tipping cows like Americans do. LOL.

[Illustration/Office Special = Don't know what inspired this little thing today. I used a sharpie and and ball-point pen. Mommy monster has a bottle of "Rarr Human Repellent" ostensibly to chase away the thing that is terrorizing the poor frightened baby monstie. Who knows. It's random as usual... that's how I roll. ;)

Friday, March 19, 2010

Happy Friday, by the way. ::smirk::

napoleonic lion

My diatribe aside, I am cannot help but be lifted by the sunshine and the knowledge that today is Friday. I just finished this office special. The Napoleonic Lion. :) I scanned it in black and white as opposed to greyscale, so it came out pixely. I will perhaps play with the original someday to get my smoothened pen lines back.

A most serious post.

My baby brother.

I have a developmentally disabled brother. His name is John, and he is two years my junior. My mother had rubella when she was pregnant with him. I helped with his care until I was 27. When we were kids in Belgium, the system there was amazing; and John had a great school to go to, and was cared for by professional people with specific training and expertise in how to deal with him. John is now 37 years old; but his brain is eternally two years old. Two, deaf, and because of medication, or frustration, or whatever other reason, he is also prone to the occasional bout of violent behaviour. It was not easy taking care of him—and when we moved back to the US, the system here is not even remotely as welcoming to a developmentally disabled adult, and so John stayed home. My mother, as usual, checked out and skipped off to do her own thing, and I spent most of my twenties filling in. John and I would lock horns just to get him dressed sometimes, and mealtime often involved plates being broken and ketchup on the ceiling (yes, every home we’ve ever lived in was left with the permanent mark of Heinz 57).

You tend to develop a sense of humour that is more… strange than others when you grow up in a household like ours. I won’t lie; we had a very hard childhood. Our parents were not very happily married, always fighting, my father had trouble controlling his temper, and my mother had/has an array of issues that makes her, without sugar-coating it; not a very nice person. Add John, flying plates and holes in the sheetrock from his tantrums, and it spells chaos. We never were allowed to value or treasure anything we owned as children; John often ruined things, tore them up, broke them, and we were always told: “oh, Jesus… it’s just stuff,” or “oh, just give it to him…”

But what I think affected me most was how people reacted to my brother. Today, he’s a big guy, swarthy, and even as a kid, he is very striking and has a strong presence. He also has no concept of the noises that come out of his mouth—he was born deaf, and his mental retardation hindered any efforts to make him understand verbal communication. His noises are raw and primal… they express his feelings like no other vocalization from a person I’ve ever heard. When he’s frustrated or angry, his voice will leave you in no doubt of it; when he is sorrowful, his cry is as plaintive as anything can be, and it will tear out your heart. There is no imbedded social buffer in his expressions as we all have… When he is happy, his laugh is like that of a little child, exuberant and joyful. And when he’s calm, he sometimes makes just a simple noise of calm, a sort of hum through his nose. I imagine if all of humanity lost their ability to make or hear speech, we’d all sound like that.

Taking him anywhere has always been an exercise in control for me. Because, at the risk of being offensive; people are jerks. They see him running in his unique way and they laugh. They hear his noises and they laugh and call him names right in front of us. I’ve had to spend my whole childhood biting back the urge to punch people in the head for mocking someone who has no idea that he’s a joke to them; who in truth, has no idea people are laughing at him. He is not hurt by it, but it bothers me to no end. For some reason, the idea of someone being unable to defend themselves against that sort of thing being subjected to it just fills my stomach with icy/flaming ire. It’s such a cowardly thing… to mock those who are ignorant of it, unprepared for it. It makes me think of bullies or cowards. Right now, there are burning tears in my eyes as I type this because it still just makes me so mad.

I am a brat, yes. I pick on people constantly. But I do not mock anyone who can’t give it right back to me. But I would NEVER intentionally attack someone, mock them to the point of humiliation or feign sincerity with a look of revulsion or disgust on my face simply for my own amusement. It sickens me that there are people like that in this world. I cannot abide mean people. At all. The kind of mean people that intentionally find ways to make themselves superior to others, the kind of mean people who belittle the efforts of others, who kick down people who are kind, who are gentle, who are well-meaning, and who have no idea they are in some way, attracting ridicule. I cannot stomach those who disparage the work of those who are at least trying.

This prejudice I have for that kind of people bleeds into every aspect of my life. Work or play… I cannot abide by deliberate meanness to others. I can joke privately, and tease and even be brash, but I would never stand in someone’s face and make fun of them in a malicious way, no matter how ridiculous they can be—or passive-aggressively make fun of someone in front of them. It’s unseemly, and really, inhuman. We are not amoebas—we have the ability to reason and the capacity for understanding—great gifts that are far too often ignored and sullied by some personal desire to make them feel better or above others.

Empathy is a gift not all of us have. We are all children of our experience, and those of us who’ve lived sheltered lives without adversity, as opoosed to those who are experienced with things like mental retardation, with physical and sexual child abuse, with domestic abuse, with suicide, with deliberate human cruelty and unkindness might not have any basis of understanding. Sheltered people often have a lot of delusions about the world, and self-absorbed ideas that they are somehow above these things, but they are not. Everyone is one step away from the adversity--whether they care to know it or not. Nobody is insulated from life, it happens. I’m going to be frank, I have experienced all of the above—and I could have gone either way in life, but instead of turning to the darkness some people turn to with that sort of childhood, I chose to be understanding as a human being, to be empathic, and kind, and as generous as I can be to people who deserve it (and sometimes those who don’t—to my detriment).

I rate kindness above anything else. Because there’s nothing more important in life than to treat people with dignity; not material items, not one’s beliefs, not one’s knowledge or skills on a particular subject or work. There is no justification for people being jerks to other people just to build their sorry egos. I will call people out on it, and invoke all manner of fights and discord about it without a second thought because I believe this so strongly. I make no apologies for pointing out the innate stupidity in the way people behave towards others and put themselves above others. I don’t care if they are family or not. There is no place for that sort of behaviour. Pointing it out often brings a lot of people to their defenses, because unfortunately many of us are guilty of it. But this post is not about anyone in particular… it’s about the state of humanity as I see it today as I think about my brother.

I’ve had my say.
Serious post over. Sorry. :(
[UPDATE DUE TO TROLLING] As a fresh reminder to the small people who get their self-worth by trolling; this blog is my little autocracy and I have no problem with deletions... Free speech here is relative. If you're planning to go through the comment process simply to prove that yes, you are an ass-monkey like the ones I described in the above post, I recommend you don't bother--I will delete it quickly and soundly and think nothing further of it--likely faster than it will take for other blog visitors to see it. Don't waste your time. Perhaps you should instead try and find some meaning in your life, besides being an ass-monkey. Have a lovely weekend. HC

Thursday, March 18, 2010

A Sunshine Day.

First and foremost, I'd like to say this... Is it good to reward bad behaviour? In my case, yes. It is. :)

The Hungarican Chick blog received its first blog award today. Imagine that! Not only in spite of my bi-polar rantings... but actually, because of them! The lovely Christine H says:

"There is so much to love here - She is witty and has lots of photos of her beautiful horse." I agree.. photos of my beautiful horse are award-worthy. Thanks Christine. ;)

Sunny is not exactly the best word to use when describing yours truly. But hey, I'll take whatever positive reinforcement I can get.


Today I am waxing nostalgic. I heard someone say Ulysses today. The name Ulysses, thanks to a cheese-filled childhood cartoon series, is forever ruined for me. I instantly start singing "Ulysses.. Ulysseeees, soaring through all the galaxeeeeee, in search of earth... flying into the niiiiight..." Why? Well, I will reveal this in the first little movie below . I have decided to post some of the things I watched on television as a wee one... Just so you can further understand exactly what contributed to my questionable sanity levels (the whole Hungarian/Puerto Rican thing aside).

Ulysses--yes... a space version of the story. Telemachus is a stupid kid and there's a robot named Nono. Seriously. And yes, I watched this (this is the English version that was aired I *think* on BBC2 but I don't remember).

Candy Candy--a dramatic animé soap opera I was glued to:

These, from what I understand, also existed in the US; so some of you might know what a 'barbapappa' is.

Calimero was really popular. People would cover their cars in Calimero stickers... a little chick with half of his egg shell on his head:

I *know* these little Belgian guys made it to the US, along with Gargamel and his cat.

And lastly, just to creep you out a bit... :)

OMG, I almost forgot this one... It's the adventures of Tom Sawyer... "He's afraid of nothing, he's an American!" they sing. ::heheheh::

Captain Flame (Capitaine Flam!)

OMG, and Maya and Goldorak... I need to stop!

Enjoy. And remember...

Ulysses... Ulyseeeeeeees... Soarin' through the Galaxeeeeeeeee...... In search of earth... flying into the niiiiiiiiight...

OMG, and I forgot to mention... My long lost cousin Viktor actually friended me on Facebook today!

Monday, March 15, 2010

Mondays should be shaved from the week.

Anyone who reads my blog knows I’m not a fan of Mondays. So decidedly, I am already predisposed to grumpiness the moment my alarm goes off every Monday morning. With the addition of daylight savings, where an hour of my precious sleeping-time is taken away… well, you might as well be taking my grumpiness, and simmering it in a saucepan for hours and hours until it becomes a reduction of dense, thick, viscous, tasty evil. A glaze of ire, which will flavour my day richly with its savoury darkness. Yes, it’s like that.

Okay, so I’m not *that* evil. I’m not evil that’s up to par with the likes of Hitler or Nero… I’m slightly closer to that creepy lady that seems to exist in every neighbourhood… the one that glares at passers by from behind her tatty curtains with narrowed eyes and a frown that seems permanently embedded into the lines of her skin. You just know there are little skeletons of unfortunate children who lost their ball on her property, or who were dared to go trick-or-treating at her door, all hidden the spare room, tidily arranged in a file-box under the bed.

Luckily, I had a nice weekend to balance this horrible weekday this week. I spent it mostly with S-II who came a-campin’ in the small space we managed to carve out for her in the ‘craft-room’ (which is more like one of the rooms from Clean House—I half expect Niecy Nash and her team to appear at my door with her finger wagging and the castigations flowing from her mouth). She worked on her new regency ballgown under my less-than apt guidance, and hung out while I forced more Firefly episodes on her and made her uncomfortable with various interactions with my husband. I think that’s why Steph II gets so much of my respect… she’s one of the only friends I have who can brave my teeny house and my weird antics for a whole weekend. She’s a brave, brave soul. Sunday, I spent time with Taglius Stampy McHoofington… who I dare say, is looking more like a Dutch warmblood or Baroque horse and less like a Belgian draft every day. My cinnamon destrier! He’s getting less ponyish-looking because I’ve worked his hay-belly off and built up some muscle. He is really moving nicely too.

So, to the meat of the post today... I am seeking feedback!

I am considering roaching (cutting off) Tag’s mane. I hear gasps of horror whenever I mention it from my fellow barn-mates… however I think shaving his mane off, and then letting it grow back Trojan-Horse style might make for something attractive for one, and for two, I’m hoping his brittle, ragged mane will grow back better and stronger. I am sure for some months it will be awkward-looking when it gets too long to stand up any more and start falling down his neck in an equine equivalent to the classic Poindexter-bowl-cut.

Should I roach Tag’s mane (I would leave his forelock, of course!)? Here is a picture of a draft with a roached mane. Tag has that big, thick, cresty neck. I think he’ll look even more dignified and noble with the Mohawk… but sometimes I just love his creamy mane, and dream of braiding it like they do with drafts. It will grow back though.

Here’s a Fjord pony with very nicely roached and cleverly trimmed mane. Fjords have the primitive dorsal stripe that puts a black stripe right down the middle of their mane… so this owner has used the two tones to their advantage and made this cool design… Tag has no such stripe… nor do I care to maintain that kind of mane-topiary… What are your thoughts? Do take the poll, and comment all you please!

Have a decent Monday… for what it’s worth… being Monday and all.

PS, this Office special is supposed to be a grey wolf. I think she personally looks more fox-like… despite her colouring. I had fun building the background though. I even put an older office special in a frame on the wall. I’m such an egotist. ;)

Friday, March 5, 2010

Happy Friday brings some relief and resolution.

It’s been figured out.

Flower’s ailment has been identified and hopefully resolved.

Her vomiting had been non-stop… pretty much whenever she even moved; however the night before last, after a visit to the specialist for the third set of x-rays; which didn’t reveal much of anything except some wire… she got much worse. She was trembling and breathing shallowly. I thought she was going to die. I stood in the kitchen, tearing up leaves of red lettuce and chopping peppers while blubbering like a fool. I’m sure the tears were for lots of things in addition to my ailing little dog… but nonetheless, the idea of losing something close to me fills me with terror.

The specialist told my husband as he looked at the latest x-ray: “Well, I can see she’s eaten…” and my husband replied, “no, actually, she hasn’t.” It established that her stomach had _something_ in it. The specialist wanted $1,700 to use a scope, and warned that they would not guarantee being able to extract anything with the scope… so surgery would be next; and performed by the specialists… it would be $3,000. We took her home to think about it… With hubby’s layoff, we simply didn’t have that option. And specialists don’t work deals or allow payments. In fact, I calculated it out; based on the charge simply to interpret an x-ray for ten minutes; veterinary specialists get $600 an hour.

Our own vet, Flower’s ‘PCP’ so to speak, at Linwood Animal Clinic is a great person. I worked as an office manager there for a few years, and the people who remain are like family to me. They’ve all known Flower since we got her at 8 weeks back in early 2005. She was frustrated about finding the cause of Flower’s illness… and she was determined to not let the worst happen because we couldn’t find $4,700. She offered to do immediate exploratory surgery, and it was a darn sight cheaper than the specialist and we had the option of payments.

So Flower had exploratory surgery yesterday. They sliced open her precious tummy and took out a wad of random things tangled together from her stomach, and as they pulled, another wad, tethered by what looks like a thin elastic that one finds on the stems of flowers, came out of her intestinal tract. She had about 75% blockage in her intestines. She was apparently in some serious pain.

So she’s home now, and on the mend. She’s pretty pathetic. We came in last night and put her carrier down and opened the door, and she didn’t come out. She just lay there, her little eyes rolling around looking at us. We moved the cage to the fire, and she finally emerged, tottering on her wobbly legs and flopping down by the fire shivering. We covered her with a blanket.

Hubby just sent me this picture. I don’t think she has enough blankets and throws. She still looks pretty sad and pathetic. Despite the massive expenditures and debt… how could we not do whatever we could to save this precious thing? Really...

Graces colour

Anyways, here's my Happy Friday office special. It's a little rabbit mum preparing her little rabbit daughters for a nice game of Graces. It was an important exercise for growing girls, to learn grace and coordination. Have a lovely weekend.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Food Network stars... really?

I got into a lively discussion with S-II after a lunch today about the merits and lack thereof in some of the Food Network’s ‘star chefs’. And let me tell you, there are a few I despise with the fire of a thousand suns… and some whom I adore. But let's talk about the ones I cannot bear at all first...

Runner up on my “Should Be Shot Into The Sun” list: Rachel Ray

I CANNOT STAND Bobby Flay. He’s an arrogant *$^%!#. Aside from the fact that he cooks my least favourite style of food… the guy is just a cocky jerk and really, a bit of a ass. Humble? Not even in his vocabulary. I mean, let’s just look at the premise of his throwdown show; that alone shows how huge an egotistical melon head this guy is.

“Oh, hello there lady or man whose carefully hewn famous dish that has been perfected enough to earn them a successful business and helps carry on a family legacy of good, wholesome, delicious food; I’m Bobby Flay... and I know your dish has earned its own standing in your community, its own level of fame, it’s something you are very proud of, and it’s something that is helping you and your family achieve success; but guess what? *I* CAN DO BETTER!!!!! I’ll bring in some judges to PROVE IT. Because I’m so great I have to prove it by attempting to trounce anyone who’s earned their own salt even without $80,000 in culinary training.”

Seriously? J……… E……… R……… K………!!!!
Okay, there’s so much to annoy me that I couldn’t possibly list it all here… but let me just point out the key annoyances that make me despise this detestable creature:

1) That 2-packs-a-day voice.
3) “Yum-o” ::::::sigh:::::::
4) Has a cooking show about cooking from cans and boxes. College kids cook from cans and boxes. I wouldn’t be surprised to turn on FN to see her making grilled cheese with an iron saying: "Add some EVOO and sprinkle it with dried parsley and Yum-o! A classic Italian time-saving dish!"
5) The gratuitous cleavage.
6) Her mere existence.

FN Stars I can deal with:

Alton Brown
S-II and I disagreed on some levels about this guy, but I am firm in my liking of Alton Brown. S-II thinks he’s annoying and ‘in-your-face’. Yes, he’s quirky and weird, but I see him as the Bill Nye the Science Guy of Food Network. Geeks deserve some weirdness license. He’s geeky and odd in his presentation, but I love Good Eats. It has taught me so much about cooking and the science behind it, and he has that sort of humour I grew up with… that very weird, in-your-face sort of quirky bizarreness. I like Alton, and think he’s great. He’s really knowledgeable but not arrogant about it. Just goofy.
Duff Goldman
So, the cakes are… okay. They’re not spectacular. Some of them are just bad, some of them are beautiful... but it’s not the cakes that I like… it’s Duff. He’s just… real. He’s funny. He’s goofy ,and I really like the atmosphere of the workplace and the people that work for him, they’re all really cool people. He’s not really cocky, he’s not pushy or self-absorbed. I admire that about him. He keeps himself real and humble—despite the cameras.
What Food Network stars *should* be like but never will:
#1 on my “Should Be Shot Into The Sun” list: Bobby Flay

Monday, March 1, 2010

Clouds over the Cinnamon Sunshine

Mon pauvre bébé! Poor Tag! Saturday, we arrived at the stable to find the big hoofy one like this:

Now, this might not seem terrible… a nice relaxing doze… But you have to know Tag to see the red flags in this picture.

He is lying next to a perfectly fluffy, succulent little pile of hay. It’s one in the afternoon. It’s at least a few hours past breakfast time. It’s one in the afternoon and he is lying down, next to a perfectly fluffy, succulent little pile of hay and it isn’t eaten!!!! There shouldn’t be a molecule of hay left anywhere in that stall!

Now I must remind you; my horse is really just a larger, longer-legged, hairier, carrot-whorier version of a pig. Yep, he’s a swine. The horse would run over his own mother for a few bites of hay. He will yank my husband’s arm out of his socket just to nibble up a few bits of hay that had fluttered down from the loft. So to see that picture… you can know right away… Tag is not feeling well AT ALL.

And worse… he didn’t attack anyone for carrots (doom and gloom music). You must understand… he is always harassing people for carrots. He was lethargic and quiet. He did *eat* some carrots, and ate them with some enthusiasm, but his constant pestering was not there. His lippy, mouthy, poky and proddiness just wasn’t present. Poor baby!

I was pretty upset. I know, I get super-fussy about these things. Horses are large and stompy but they are really extremely delicate creatures. Their fragile legs aside, a horse’s digestion can be thrown off just a little and they could easily die. Colic can be fatal. Horses cannot vomit. If they eat something bad, it has to go through their entire system and out the other side. And if a horse’s diet changes radically… they can get very sick. Horses get blockages, twisted intestines and all manner of terrible afflictions that sometimes are fatal. So yeah, I got upset. I worried about changed food, about this, about that. I worried.

Tag was also VERY STINKY. I discovered he’d had a bit of an accident on his legs and tail and he had to get a bath. Now he smells like baby shampoo. It turns out Taggie had a fever… so it wasn’t mild colic (and he had other signs of it not being colic…)… this morning, according to the owner of the barn, his temp was back down and he was eating. He hadn’t been drinking at all. I will check on him this afternoon. ::sigh:: It seems this is right on par with my karma these days. Good things going bad. Bad bad bad. Will this year of gloom never end? Will the clouds part and shed me a little bit of sun? :::WHINE!!::: Daddy’s 80th birthday is fast approaching. Next Monday. He is incoherent and lost. Flower is still ill… still coughing… still vomiting. The specialist wants $1,700 we don’t have, to scope her throat, and now Taggie is sick. I hope this is a bug. I can’t bear the idea of losing him. He’s my ray of sunshine. Cinnamon sunshine. :::ugh:::


Related Posts with Thumbnails