I took it easy last night, no running out into the insanity that is the Irish pub scene in Astoria to drive out the snakes. It was just the dog and I, Laura having stayed over with a friend in Brooklyn to get a quick start on the half-marathon they're running this morning.
Me, my plan was to take Ella to the park for our standard two-hour Saturday outing, then get her medications in her and head out to New Jersey for Lunacon. But when I woke up at five, I could barely move. Every muscle in my body ached. I couldn't get back to sleep. It's no secret I've been burning the candle at both ends, but I don't want the flame to go out today.
Ella needs her walk, so we'll head out in a few minutes and see how that goes. (Though I'm seriously tempted to take a car service to the park. It's a half-hour walk.) I'm full of water and coffee, and an Aleve will go down the pipe next. I hope when we get back I will no longer feel as if the Huns of Ill Health are lying in ambush just beyond the next rise. Ella is pouting on the floor, but maybe her enthusiasm once we get underway will scatter those ruffians!
Update: Feeling better already, just being up and moving around. We'll see how I am at 9:30.
Ella is back from the hospital! Actually, she came home last night. She's none the worse for the wear except for being on several prescriptions and having had a cuff shaved around one of her back ankles. For such a fluffy-looking dog, she sure has a leg like a chicken bone!
In other news, there's been a very slight tweak to the look of Shunn.net. Nothing major!
Our friend ellapup is spending the night in the hospital for monitoring and fluids as she recuperates from a particularly nasty bout of gastroenteritis and its attendant dehydration. Please, no flowers. She would only eat or more likely shred them. Squeaky toys always put a wag in the ol' tail, though.
For a moment I wondered what horrific sight or gut-churning smell it might be that had made such unholy handiwork of this Andy Richterlooking fellow's fat face, but all became clear when the porcine perambulator spat these words with a venom that would not have disgraced a slithering specimen of Naja nigricollis nigricincta: "What is that on your head?"
Ah. Owing to the evening's chill, I proudly sported my infamous Mad Bomber Hat1, tugged snugly down around my ears. Lined with genuine and luxuriant lapin fur, this toasty headgear never fails to elicit hearty compliments from more discerning critics (as, in fact, it did not much later that evening). Never before, however, had an imprecation of such vehemence been hurled at my innocent chapeau.
Needless to say, such churlishness could not be allowed to pass unchecked. Shrugging off my shock, I turned as the surly stranger passed and sent this salvo sailing over my shoulder:
Ella (accompanied by her pal Casey) demonstrates her rebounding technique: