It is night-time now. And I'm nearly finished with the book Night by Elie Wiesel. So, appropriate title, eh? Not very creative, but appropriate. I work with what I have available.
I was out of the house almost 14 straight hours today. Figure 35 minutes for driving to and from town. Nine hours-plus at work. An hour for lunch. Twenty minutes listening to Harry Potter in the car while eating my nutritious dinner of Twizzler Bits and Dr. Pepper, and two hours of meeting. Everyone was slightly punchy tonight, but we still got done 15 minutes early.
I'm tired. Newsflash. I came home and within twenty minutes both Sparky and Beast have gone to bed. The Amazing Race is taping. It's very quiet. I can hear Buddy rustling around in his cage. He's probably lonely and worried.
Cinnamon is twitching in the Hospital Box. He's had seizures every hour or so all day. His right side is almost totally immobile. He's squeaking when he breathes, like he did in December and January. I don't know what to do. Should I take him to the vet tomorrow for a largish injection of morphine? Or should we let him die 'naturally'? Someone at work said a Buddhist friend of hers took her sick rodent out to the garage and turned the car on; I don't think I can do that.
One of my coworkers' mother had hip surgery last week. She's a holy terror. Meanwhile, this coworker--who probably is probably about a size 6--is suffering from a bad round of health, diagnosed as diverticulitis. She can't eat without getting sick, so she's lost what looks like 15 lbs. in the last month or so. I don't think she can possible weigh more than 100 lbs. now, if that; her shoulder bones are poking out of her shirt.
Shit. Cinnamon just about leapt out of the box--two feet in the air, slamming himself against the tipped-back lid and flailing all over the place.
I need to get some water into him and shake out the towel he's been pooping on all day.
Hope you all have a good night's rest.