Love In a Time of Emails

 The normal-ish text messaging in which Bob I wantonly engage has been interrupted by the very serious, terminal even, Crapped Out Phone’s Disease.

We do tend to run on when free of that nasty-ass, microscopic telefonino keyboard. Unhobbled, and unconstrained, we’re free, baby, free-ish.

An excerpt from today’s very serious conversation.

Bob:
You got a computervoicecall from Blue Cross saying that you'll get a letter within 5 days and that it's important to update their info on you.

What have you been up to these days, eh?

Donna:
Blue Cross should probably know that I died last year. Oh wait, that was someone else.

Ready for her close up as usual

How's our baby Coco doing this morning?

Bob:
I think Coco's in the cellar mixin’ up the medicine.

Still waiting for a call-back from Schopenhauer's office (the conversational derailment deepens here. Doctor Schoenbaum is my primary care doc) to reschedule your appointment.     

 Greta came by to eat.

Donna:
'Arthur Schopenhauer (22 February 1788 – 21 September 1860) was an atheistic German philosopher known for his pessimism and philosophical clarity'

Not sure this is the sort of medic best suited to my current persona. He might do well with my next incarnation or maybe that last one. I forget now.

Greta was by yesterday too. She still runs when I step out to fill her food bowl but not quite as far. PROGRESS!

A friend, who also feed strays, feels we should give Rocco some of our left over anti-biotics . We should put them in his tuna each day so he doesn't get infected (MORE infected than I imagine he already is).

What do you think Hunny and do we have any left over pills? Can you call the vet, 'splain the situation and see what she has to say?

Bob:
How do we know what's in whatever pills you have? Or what might or might not be a fatal dose for a skinny cat?

Still no call back from Schönberg.

Donna:
Honey Pie, I think I’ve got more wrong with me than can be fixed by a libidinous little 12 tone row. I could be wrong  of course.

Bob:
Just heard a meow.  Rocco was coming into the yard.  So I got some food for him and now, no sign of Rocco.

Looks like Greta napping under Jen's van.   Also noticed a lot of flies in the house lately.  When
I was looking out for Rocco I noticed this screen window (by the computer) is laying in the yard behind us.  I'll go around the block and get it tomorrow.  Too hot today.

Donna: That's our Coco’s doing -- she leans hard against the screen when napping there. She's inside right? She didn’t get out?

Good that Rocco's out during the day again. He was getting a bit too pale and vampire-y there.

Bob:
Guess what -- that wasn't Rocco, that was Coco and she's the one asleep under the van.  She doesn't want to come out either, the little cretin.  She must've pushed the screen out and then followed it.  I’ll go out and sit for a while where she can see me, then come in for a while to cool off and chase flies. 

What a fucking day.
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Eventually Bob managed to coax our little Houdini out from under the van with her fav treat -- Whisker Lickin’s Crunchy Tuna treats.


Cats -- they'll be the death of us, I swear!