Last weekend winter finally arrived-- all at once-- with 16 inches of snow.
While my son and husband spent most of the day shoveling, I spent most of the day in bed.
Storms are never great on my joints, but there is an additional problem. My insurance company changed with the new year, which meant I needed to go through the entire pre-approval rigamarole again for a biologic I have been taking now for months. The time involved has put me a dose behind on the miracle drug that makes me just functional enough to move through my day.
Also, I had been fighting to keep going after overdoing it had thrown me into a flare. My body always tells me to go back to bed, so I often ignore it, but Saturday it gave me no choice. Since then I've been trying to take it easier.
My cats are basically throw pillows, but lions and other wild cats sleep almost as long. They hunt, eat, sleep. So my trip to the grocery store counts as hunting. My trip to the aquarium, as tempting as some of those fishies look, does not.
I was scheduled to end the week with a return trip to the aviary, but the weather was looking dicy again. I was relieved that my friend suggested to cancel before I had to.
How about my kitties? I assume they dream; my dog does. What do they dream about?
I have a favorite poem, by Elizabeth Coatsworth, about cats and their imaginations that applies to the moggies we have loved, but not to our current aristocats.