Isn’t there always a moment, when sick just too darn long, when you just give up, just give in to it all, instead of fighting it?
Today, this was it. I am done. Go ahead, cough, keep me awake, make my chest and abdominal muscles sore. Make me almost black out from a long, deep cough. Make me stay on the couch and just hack hack hack. The kangaroo in my chest is kicking me from the inside, trying to get out. Oh, viral bronchitis, you win.
The dogs don’t care. They barely look up as I cough. Tiny Dog sleeps on my chest, Wren under my arm, George at my feet. When I get up to move from loveseat to couch to stretch out, one by one follows me there. I am not sure what they gain, but it makes me feel better to have them there.
Wren often tries to get as close as possible, which means almost squeezing Tiny Dog out.
|Here is Tiny Dog in my bathrobe, Wren on my
|Wren's view from the loveseat. Doodle again bored.|
They regard our time together no different, I believe, than when I am well. Cough time = couch time, and all is well.
|And: remember summer?|