For the Sake of Research
It’s been a rough week. Or a wonderful week if you count all the fodder for my writing.
Life started getting interesting on Wednesday when I was doing the dreaded prep for my first (and if I can help it—LAST) colonscopy. I realize how important this test is and how many lives it’s saved, but let me just say, if they can put men on the moon, they should be able to come up with a prep that doesn’t taste quite so dreadful.
But I lived through it, and as I’d been told, the test itself was a piece of cake. I slept through it. Although I made many mental notes about the hospital experience for use in a future story.
The weird complication came when I woke up and announced, through a drug-induced fog, that my eye hurt. Somehow, I’d managed to scratch my cornea. Recovery room staff hustled to bring me eye ointment. The thing hurt like the dickens and my vision was seriously blurred for the rest of the day.
By Friday morning, my eye and my vision were improved. However, the universe wasn’t done with me. The friendly feral cat named Moochie, who I’ve been “sneaking” food to for a couple of years now, decided to join me as I walked around my yard. In doing so, he wound himself around my legs and I tripped over him. In his mind, though, I kicked him.
It’s all in the POV.
Anyhow, in response, Moochie attacked the offending foot—mine. Produced three lovely, bloody tooth marks and some rather colorful language from me.
As I mentioned, Moochie is a feral cat. He’s also an unneutered Tom who gets in lots of scraps. He was a handsome boy at one time, but now his face and ears bear the scars of many battles. I’ve considered changing his name to Mickey Rourke.
The point is Moochie is not up on his vaccinations. Heck, Moochie doesn’t even know what a vaccination is.
So this morning I found myself sitting in the Emergency Room being pumped full of IV antibiotics and filling out an animal bite form for animal control. I was told to catch Moochie and confine him for ten days. If he survives, I won’t have to get that nasty series of rabies shots.
Thankfully, Moochie happened to be hanging around when I returned home. Instead of kicking his little furry ass, which was my first inclination, I cooed and coaxed him into our basement. I gave him food and water and a litter box (which he has no clue of its purpose) and made arrangements with our local animal control guy to come and inspect him at the end of the ten days.
So as “punishment” for attacking my foot and sending me to the ER, Moochie is living in air conditioned splendor.
This whole incident is soooo going into my next book. But I want to issue a message to whatever Universal Power is sending me all these research opportunities: I have a very vivid imagination. I really could make something up without having experienced it first hand.