So, Otis killed his first mouse sometime last night and must now be considered a contributing member of the staff rather than being just a fluffy adorable mascot. He’s understandably proud.
In fact, he presented his rather gory trophy to the staff this morning as soon as they opened the store, and I mean, as soon as they opened the store. Apparently he was quite vocal in his demands that our store manager follow him, and, using a technique not seen since the heyday of Lassie, managed to get her to do his bidding.
Unfortunately (or not), I am under the weather and I missed the chest-thumping and high-fiving that I am certain occurred upon discovery of the eviscerated corpse (which our store manager was so kind as to take pictures of for me to see once I did make it in. She’s a doll, that one).
Anyway, Otis has proven himself to be a mighty hunter and we can all feel better about the decreased possibility of having a mouse run over our toes while we are wearing our cutest Tommy Hilfiger sandals, the ones with the madras print, not that I necessarily have any personal experience with such a situation.
PTSD! PTSD!
And, I digress.
So, as I casually mentioned earlier in this post, I’m sick. Actually, I am SICK. The dreaded flu has overtaken me with headache, body ache, sore throat, nausea caused by nasal drainage, low-grade fever and the propensity to burst into tears at any minute. It’s not pretty.
I’m not used to being sick and I have to admit that I haven’t handled it very well. There may have been some ridiculous whining and possibly a request to the cat to just finish me off, already; the possibility that evisceration-by-cat might prove desirable to dying a slow death at the hands of a stupid virus.
Which, I know; ridiculous, right? I blame the Nyquil.
On the other hand, thank GOD for the Nyquil.
That is all.
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