vituperation

So I woke up this morning a little before one. I was cold, I was clammy, and I was lightly damp; my friend the fever had crept back up on me while I slept.

I got up, peed, and took four Advils, then went back to bed. The cold and damp bed, where I shivered for several minutes - thinking evil thoughts about the world, too, truth be told - before drifting off to some pretty good sleep.

I woke up just before five and felt great, but strangely wet. Real wet.

Peeing in the bed wet, all over.

I got up and turned on the light. Damnation. When my fever breaks, it breaks. I’d soaked nearly half of a queen-sized bed with my sweat. Literally, head to knee, and stretching out a good eight inches on either side of my body.

But I felt great, like I said, so I figured it was worth it.

I put on my girdle (grumble) and a tshirt, then grabbed the patented cat-shutter-upper spray bottle of water I take to my room every night and opened the bedroom door. I stepped through. As always, Tubby and Spanky were waiting for me - Spanky out of love and happiness and Tubby out of fear that the food bowl’s getting low.

I had to push Spanky back with my foot when I closed the door, because he wants nothing more in this world than to be in my bedroom. He doesn’t know why he wants to be in there, just that he does, and he tries to muscle his little gomer-looking self in there every chance he gets.

As I closed the door, I heard it.

Heeee. Heeee. Heeee.

What the hell? I thought, and looked across the landing toward the sound. My wife, being one nightlight-lovin’ fool, has one plugged in on the landing so we can see (dimly) when it’s dark out.

Fancypants. Trying to pull carpet over the big shit he’d just left in the floor. Finally, the evidence we wanted, to prove who it is who keeps shitting in the floor. We suspected him, but we’d never caught him flagrante delicto.

He was a raking bastard, that’s for sure. So intent was he on scraping air over his poo from every conceivable angle was he that he didn’t notice me stepping closer.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, actually. Grab him and rub his face in it? Beat his ass senseless? Scream at him?

The realization that I was holding the patented cat-shutter-upper spray bottle of water in my hand dawned on me.

So I shot him.

Though it won’t fix the floor-shitting problem, I at least have the satisfaction of the memory of the sound of him smacking the wall headfirst when he jumped into it.

I’ll take what I can get.

I went into the master bedroom and got dressed for walking, since I was feeling so fine. I’m pleased to have walked 2.5 miles this morning, without getting tired, and the trip only took me about seven or eight minutes longer than it would’ve pre-surgery. Healing is good.

About two-thirds of the way along my route, I was stalking along, looking at the ground in front of me, and deep into my audiobook (Black House by King/Straub). I’m at a tense scene in the book, where police have found the body of a little girl in a rundown old restaurant. Emotions are high in the scene, and I was deeply involved in what was going on.

When without warning, something went shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! from about fifteen feet away in the ten o’clock direction, assuming midnight is straight ahead. A rolling mass burst from the low bushes there and hurtled toward me.

I very nearly screamed, like a little girl.

The mass split into two pieces as it came nearer, and something yowled angrily. Two cats. Fighting.

Who says you need exercise to get your heart rate up?