Hmmm ... Caesar. Caesar is this little Shitzu we adopted 7 years ago. He was 6 weeks old and looked like a Star Wars Ewok, so I caved and we became dog owners. Caesar has endured two toddlers without biting, two different houses, one trip across the United States in the Expedition with our family, one plane ride, and only had to take puppy prozac one time (hell, even I was taking puppy prozac on that aforementioned journey from Las Vegas to New Hampshire with the whole family). Caesar is a "pure bred" and we allowed him to "father" one litter before we, as the kids would say, "chopped his balls off." Despite the loss of his manhood, he still makes every attempt to get out the front door to pee everywhere in the neighborhood ... just to let the ladies know he's around. He's been caught by animal control once. Fortunately for him he was a first time offendor so there was no fee involved ... if there was, he might still be impounded because he just ticks me off to no end when he runs out the front door and I have to chase his butt.
By little dog standards, Caesar isn't that old. But, he does have a weight problem, (probably because he sleeps 23 hours a day like a cat) which could mean a cholesterol problem, which might mean he's depressed after bringing home baby #3, which might mean he'll be suicidal when we bring home baby #4.
All this being said, we can depend on a few constants with Caesar. First, he's lazy, don't ever try to run WITH him because at about mile one he will drop on his belly, flopping all four spread eagle, and refuse to go on no matter how much you scream, yell, and tug at his leash. He would rather you just choke him with his leash, and you will eventually have to carry him home. Second, he's part cat. He sleeps all day in various locales, and seems to be fond of spaces much smaller than his fat body. He manages to twist, turn, and contort until all of his hearty self fits. Third, he snores, like a freight train, and will keep you up at night. And finally, he will always and forever more sleep in his kennel in our rom because if left to his own device at night he will "go" somewhere inappropriate ... in the house.
We were always told, "don't worry, dogs won't pee or poop in their kennels, they just won't do it because then they'd have to sit in their own nastiness." For 7 years this has held true... until now. Two weeks ago we went to a memorial day party. Caesar, because he has no control of himself, was left in his kennel while we were gone ... like we have always done with him since he was a puppy. Never an issue. We were gone about 4 hours. Upon our arrival home a horrible stench filled the air. As we attempted to locate the epicenter of the stench, my stomache dropped when I realized it was coming from my bedroom ... near Caesar's kennel. What the hell?
Now, this particular day was day #2 after Jon's ER visit for the gout in his knee. He was still taking pain killers, (super fun at the party trying to make sure he didn't say something ridiculous) and I was in charge of this familial ship. As I got to Caesar's kennel, I felt the whole ship sink. There, outside of his kennel, a good 3-5" away from the metal door of his kennel, a spewing of diarrhea... not a little crap, alot of crap. Somehow that dog had managed to shimmy his rear to the kennel door and blow his poop all OUTSIDE of his kennel because, after all, he didn't want to sit in his own shame. Jon was on drugs, this is a puking pregnancy for me, and I had to take a moment to regroup realizing I would have to clean all of this up.
First, I puked. Got that out of the way. Then I gathered supplies, mini carpet cleaner, etc. etc. THEN, and only then, did I get closer to the kennel to let Caesar outside. He was curled up towards the back of his kennel (obviously ashamed of his behavior and smelling his own nastiness). I assessed the kennel situation to make sure when I let him out he would not "travel" with any "residue" left on the kennel. To my surprise, and admittedly pride, that dog had not gotten one smattering of poop on his kennel ... not on the door, nowhere. How he managed this, I will never know. I wish we had a hidden camera on sight, because even the Dog Whisperer would not believe this one.
I set Caesar free to go outside, then cleaned up his nasty mess while Jon stared at me sort of glazed over (high) as he apologized that I was pregnant and had to clean this up. I puked one more time, managed the mess, and wiped my hands clean (no pun intended) of the mess assuming this was a totally freak incident that would never happen two times in one dog's lifetime. Until this morning ... I ran the first of 2 carpools this morning only to come home between carpool #1 and #2 to smell a familiar foul stench. Bradyn went upstairs to let the dog out of his kennel, and came back downstairs saying, "Mom, it's so gross!" Yes, yes, again, Caesar had blown poop out his kennel door. However, this time, it was grosser (how it could be grosser, I would never imagine), and he had not shown the same finesse to keep the kennel poop free this time.
Let him out, cleaned his mess, and am now considering taking him to the woods and leaving him there. Perhaps I could give him to the circus? Has anyone else ever heard of a dog who shimmies their back side with such accuracy as to shoot poop outside the kennel door? I didn't think so.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 5, 2010
Gout, ER, Narcotics, Mi Casa, and Starbucks for everyone ...
What is gout. Gout is a build up of uric acid in your diet that forms tiny crystals in the shape of diamonds form in various and asundry joints of your body. The crystals resemble little jaggez razors, and therefore shred and tear said muscles, tendons, etc. in their appointed area of delight. Gout has been called the "rich man's disease" because high uric acid producing foods involve alcohol, fatty foods, rich foods, etc. Over a course of centuries, the royalty of every nation have had "gout". Jon is not a drinker, but Jon's favorite foods are fast ... and greasy ... and slide right down his gullet with ease.
Jon has gout. Jon has had gout for about 5 years. Every male in Jon's family has gout, but every male also drinks, alot, so Jon was slightly pissy when his gout appeared in his big toe 5 years ago. He is in denial about gout being from his grease lovin' dietarty habits. Gout in Jon's big toe has occureda few times over the past 5 years. I have never personallyexperienced gout, but apparently even the sheets on the bed rubbing against the afflicted big toe cause excruciating pain. The gout sufferer has a couple of meds they can take, but for the most part, you just have to ride it out until it gets better.
On Friday Jon's knees started to hurt. He suspected gout in his knee (a new locale), and started his medication regime followed by his internet searched remedies of cherry juice and baking soda chasers. By Saturday evening, he couldn't walk, his foot was turning blue, and his leg was doubling in size. We kicked out our BBQ company (see, karma, inviting last minute BBQ people and not telling me was rendering it's payback to Jon in the form of gout), and I took a highly resistant bitching husband to the Longmont, Colorado ER ... at 8 0'clock ... on a Saturday night. Awesome.
On the drive there Jon was in excruciating pain, and I felt really bad for him. But I have to admit, I was hoping two things upon arrival at the ER. A) a quick in and out visit (yeah right) B) if not a quick on and out visit, and least a portion of Saturday night regulars would be there for cheap entertainment while we waited, a cop with a prisoner in shackles high as a kite denying they have a drug problem would be an extra bonus point for sure.
We managed to get Jon into the hospital. As he was checking in, I checked out the waiting room. I was in luck! We had walked into a virtual motherlode of saturday night regulars. When I saw a cop walk past me a little thrill of delight shot up my spine! Jon was in horrible pain at this point, and again, I felt really badly for him. He tried to walk into the waiting room and his poor knee finally gave out. I caught him, sort of, and when the nurse offered a wheel chair he tried to be manly and tell them no. I responded, "Jon, I'm pregnant, you're not a light weight, I won't catch you, I promise, get the chair." Begrudgingly, he dropped his man pride, and into the chair he went.
The waiting room. Oh gosh, motherlode for sure. As I looked around I noted a few things. (Before I begin, let me clarify I am NOT racist, again, NOT racist, so don't start making wierd judgment calls on this next part.) Jon and I were the only caucasians. There were small children (like 18 months) crawling around on the hospital floor, contracting the plague, I'm pretty sure. Hospitals are filthy and gross, let's be honest, they're full of sick people, and my overwhelmingly unhealthy fear of germs makes the hospital almost as bad as my fear of public pools. Most of the people knew each other. I don't know if it was a family party gone awry, a neighborhood party at the ER, not sure. All I knew was that when I heard a cell phone ringer belt out the same tune I had heard earlier at our favorite Mexican restaurant, I was relatively enterained. I didn't know that was a ring tone.
My Spanish skills involve one year of a 7th grade electie course. I can ask you what's for dinner in the kitchen, how do I get to the bathroom, or other nonsensical useless conversation. Everyone seemed pretty happy to be there, and I wasn't sure where the ER emergency situations were. One mom was limping, but when her 2 year old ran across the room, she took off in a dead sprint, limp magically cured, until she caught the errant child, and returned to her seat, limping. One guy called out to the crowd something about, "la Casa" then said he was going to "la Starbucks" and who was interested. Suddenly there were orders being shouted out for frappucinos and lattes and regulars. Huh, I really didnt have words. The entrance back to the actual ER rooms seemed like a revolving dooor. More and more people were coming in and out of the doors, again, everyone seemed related, and again, I had no words. Jon was in so much pain I don't think he was as attentive as myself to our surroundings.
Gratefully, the nurse got Jon a room pretty quickly for ER time (an hour or so). When we got into the room, Jon was greeted by his CNA, Omar. Omar wasn't to concerned about Jon's pain. I think Omar had been having a rough night, and I'm pretty sure he immediately pegged Jon as drug seeking. What Omar didn't know is Jon NEVER takes narcotics. His leg could be severed, falling off, and he'd ask for Motrin. Not kidding. The nurse came in and did the whole triage thing. By this point poor Jon was a mess. He was on the verge of tears, and I was really worried about him. The nurse said she wanted to get him "comfortable" since it was a busy night and it could be some time before he saw a doctor. She offered morphine. Jon initially refused, but when he accepted the offer, I KNEW this was bad. I told her Jon's adament hatred of narcotics.
The morphine was not the best idea. For a peson that never takes narcotics, a shot of morphine straight to the vein elicited an immediate response. He started grabbing his chest and saying, "I can't breathe." The nurse didn't seem to concerned, I was convinced he was having a heart attack. I said something to the nurse and she said to Jon, "guess you don't do enough heroin, this is your body reacting to the shock of the morphine." Hmmm, check. For those of you that don't want a heart attack from morphine, start doing heroine asap.
The heart attack symptoms stopped, but the pain wasn't letting up much. On the other hand, Jon was now high, and I had the pleasure of sitting in the room with him while we waited for the ultrasound. Jon's high's involve the following, panic attacks, emotional outbursts, non stop babbling that he thinks is completely coherent, total loss of bodily function (he was farting, repeatedly, and at one point said, "uh, that one might have been productive, I might have pooped the bed."), and life affirming reflections on his life. He asked for my phone so he could check in on his facebook. Okay, yes, I had a moment where I almost let him have the phone wanting to let him see the "next day" affects of what he might write to the world, but I took pity on the poor guy. He asked for his laptop so he could get some work e-mails done. Again, this was a no. Jon need not be fired. I'm pregnant with #4 and I would not do poverty well.
Ultrasound was clear, no clots. Good deal. Jon was still in writhing pain. The doctor came in, checked him out, diagnosed no gout but perhaps a lingering back, nerve issue (jon also has back issues) gone awry. Doc asked about Jon's diet to assess his gout. Jon said, "uh, it's not great." Doc asked what set off his gout typically. Jon said, "uh, I dunno." I finally had to step in. "Well, the Wendy's BACONATOR is one of his favorites, he had that Friday night." The doc looked at me wide eyed and said, "really? There's a sandwich called the baconator?" Uh, yeah, Jon snorted that one out months ago. Doc suggested strongly Jon avoid future baconator trips ... but this was not gout. This explains why the gout pills were not touching the pain. The doc then suggested prednisone for the swelling, and another narcotic for the pain so Jon could actually walk out of the hospital without wanting immediate amputation. Jon was in so much pain at this point, he again agreed to more narcotics, the morphine had worn off.
The doctor asked the standard, "any allergies" questions. Jon said no, but that he had taken some narcotic one time that my little brother had given him and it had some wierd side effects. OMG. I had a flashback. Jon had a severe gout attack a year prior and we were visiting my Mom. Josh (my brother) was there, and he offered Jon some pill he had so Jon could at least sleep through the night. Jon had not brought his gout pills on vacation. Jon finally accepted the offer. Again, since Jon never takes anything stronger than Motrin, he's a raving idiot on any narcotic. I told the doctor that I couldn't remember what the pill was, but the side effect was a little more than "wierd", and heaven help me if Jon was given that particular narcotic ever, ever, again.
I then proceeded to tell the doctor about my night from hell when Jon took the magic yellow pill. He spent the better portion of the night waking me up, repeatedly, beginning with, "honey, honey, I'm going to poop my pants ... seriously, going to poop my pants!" followed by his narcotic induced plan to NOT poop his pants, "honey, honey, we have to have sex or I'm going to poop my pants." His sex to not poop his pants plan went from a passing thought to an insistent urgent need to solve his poop his pants problem. He was dying, possibly pooping his pants, and sex was the only cure. This went on ALL NIGHT LONG. The doctor sort of looked at me dumbfounded trying not to laugh his ass off. I told him it was so NOT funny, and so completely true.
The nurse gave Jon some prednisone, narcotic cocktail. No heart attack this time, but immediate "high" for Jon. When the nurse left the room Jon informed me that he would drive home, and the hospital bed was big enough for me to "hop on" and have sex in this most sexy of places, the ER. It seems Jon's "id" (for you psyc majors) takes over when he's high. Then the babbling began, he wanted his cell phone to call some friends and employees to talk about office crap, he wanted to know why the waiting rooom was Tijauana, he wanted his computer, he wanted me to go home, he wasn't "high", he loved me, he was not as attentive this pregnancy, he needed to mow the lawn when we got home (mind you, it was midnight now), he wanted Drew to be his new apprentice at work, blah, blah. He would NOT shut up. When the nurse retuned I told her I would give her $1000 to shut him up because I could not take this babbling idiot home. She just laughed, it wasn't funny, then Jon started telling the nurse she was "awesome" and "the best nurse EVER!" Heaven help us all.
We finally got out of the ER. Me driving the idiot home, exhausted, grateful his pain was gone, but telling him to shut up repeatedly. When we pulled in the driveway I told him, "Jon, you're high. You may not think you're high, but you are. Don't go into the boys room to tuck them in, you'll scare them. Get to the bed, immediately. He was insistent he was "good" and I threatened him. He made it inside, then started stumbling around insistent he wanted to kiss the kids goodnight and make sure Caden was covered up with his blanket. He's a caring Dad, even when he's high. I had to be firm and stern and direct his butt to bed.
I was downstairs getting him some toast and water so he could take his pill. Then I heard a thud at the top of the stairs followed by, "uh, I think I need a towel." I thought this was it, he had indeed pooped his pants wiht this narcotic. Fortunately, he had just tippd over at the top of the stairs and dropped his glass of water. Relief. Got him into the room, he had to go potty, he fell asleep on the potty. I was so tired and torked at this point I jsut left him there. He came around about an hour later and mumbled something about, "I'm okay, I'm good," He crashed into the bed, I gave him his pain pill, and he proceeded to continue blathering like an idiot for 2 freaking hours. It was now 3 am.
I had to wake up at 6 am because Caden was up. I got him situated, then had to go to the pharmacy to get Jon's prednisoe, narcotics scripts filled. Fortuntely, when I came home he was in bed watching cartoons with Caden. Caden didn't mind his blithering nonsensical talk. Of course, Caden's 2.
Jon's asleep now ... I'm awake on this computer, and I had about 3 hours of sleep last night. He talked about getting to church this morning then moved on to mowing the lawn then again requested his phone and laptop to get some work done. Then he passed out.
There are no morals to this story. I'm just tired.
Jon has gout. Jon has had gout for about 5 years. Every male in Jon's family has gout, but every male also drinks, alot, so Jon was slightly pissy when his gout appeared in his big toe 5 years ago. He is in denial about gout being from his grease lovin' dietarty habits. Gout in Jon's big toe has occureda few times over the past 5 years. I have never personallyexperienced gout, but apparently even the sheets on the bed rubbing against the afflicted big toe cause excruciating pain. The gout sufferer has a couple of meds they can take, but for the most part, you just have to ride it out until it gets better.
On Friday Jon's knees started to hurt. He suspected gout in his knee (a new locale), and started his medication regime followed by his internet searched remedies of cherry juice and baking soda chasers. By Saturday evening, he couldn't walk, his foot was turning blue, and his leg was doubling in size. We kicked out our BBQ company (see, karma, inviting last minute BBQ people and not telling me was rendering it's payback to Jon in the form of gout), and I took a highly resistant bitching husband to the Longmont, Colorado ER ... at 8 0'clock ... on a Saturday night. Awesome.
On the drive there Jon was in excruciating pain, and I felt really bad for him. But I have to admit, I was hoping two things upon arrival at the ER. A) a quick in and out visit (yeah right) B) if not a quick on and out visit, and least a portion of Saturday night regulars would be there for cheap entertainment while we waited, a cop with a prisoner in shackles high as a kite denying they have a drug problem would be an extra bonus point for sure.
We managed to get Jon into the hospital. As he was checking in, I checked out the waiting room. I was in luck! We had walked into a virtual motherlode of saturday night regulars. When I saw a cop walk past me a little thrill of delight shot up my spine! Jon was in horrible pain at this point, and again, I felt really badly for him. He tried to walk into the waiting room and his poor knee finally gave out. I caught him, sort of, and when the nurse offered a wheel chair he tried to be manly and tell them no. I responded, "Jon, I'm pregnant, you're not a light weight, I won't catch you, I promise, get the chair." Begrudgingly, he dropped his man pride, and into the chair he went.
The waiting room. Oh gosh, motherlode for sure. As I looked around I noted a few things. (Before I begin, let me clarify I am NOT racist, again, NOT racist, so don't start making wierd judgment calls on this next part.) Jon and I were the only caucasians. There were small children (like 18 months) crawling around on the hospital floor, contracting the plague, I'm pretty sure. Hospitals are filthy and gross, let's be honest, they're full of sick people, and my overwhelmingly unhealthy fear of germs makes the hospital almost as bad as my fear of public pools. Most of the people knew each other. I don't know if it was a family party gone awry, a neighborhood party at the ER, not sure. All I knew was that when I heard a cell phone ringer belt out the same tune I had heard earlier at our favorite Mexican restaurant, I was relatively enterained. I didn't know that was a ring tone.
My Spanish skills involve one year of a 7th grade electie course. I can ask you what's for dinner in the kitchen, how do I get to the bathroom, or other nonsensical useless conversation. Everyone seemed pretty happy to be there, and I wasn't sure where the ER emergency situations were. One mom was limping, but when her 2 year old ran across the room, she took off in a dead sprint, limp magically cured, until she caught the errant child, and returned to her seat, limping. One guy called out to the crowd something about, "la Casa" then said he was going to "la Starbucks" and who was interested. Suddenly there were orders being shouted out for frappucinos and lattes and regulars. Huh, I really didnt have words. The entrance back to the actual ER rooms seemed like a revolving dooor. More and more people were coming in and out of the doors, again, everyone seemed related, and again, I had no words. Jon was in so much pain I don't think he was as attentive as myself to our surroundings.
Gratefully, the nurse got Jon a room pretty quickly for ER time (an hour or so). When we got into the room, Jon was greeted by his CNA, Omar. Omar wasn't to concerned about Jon's pain. I think Omar had been having a rough night, and I'm pretty sure he immediately pegged Jon as drug seeking. What Omar didn't know is Jon NEVER takes narcotics. His leg could be severed, falling off, and he'd ask for Motrin. Not kidding. The nurse came in and did the whole triage thing. By this point poor Jon was a mess. He was on the verge of tears, and I was really worried about him. The nurse said she wanted to get him "comfortable" since it was a busy night and it could be some time before he saw a doctor. She offered morphine. Jon initially refused, but when he accepted the offer, I KNEW this was bad. I told her Jon's adament hatred of narcotics.
The morphine was not the best idea. For a peson that never takes narcotics, a shot of morphine straight to the vein elicited an immediate response. He started grabbing his chest and saying, "I can't breathe." The nurse didn't seem to concerned, I was convinced he was having a heart attack. I said something to the nurse and she said to Jon, "guess you don't do enough heroin, this is your body reacting to the shock of the morphine." Hmmm, check. For those of you that don't want a heart attack from morphine, start doing heroine asap.
The heart attack symptoms stopped, but the pain wasn't letting up much. On the other hand, Jon was now high, and I had the pleasure of sitting in the room with him while we waited for the ultrasound. Jon's high's involve the following, panic attacks, emotional outbursts, non stop babbling that he thinks is completely coherent, total loss of bodily function (he was farting, repeatedly, and at one point said, "uh, that one might have been productive, I might have pooped the bed."), and life affirming reflections on his life. He asked for my phone so he could check in on his facebook. Okay, yes, I had a moment where I almost let him have the phone wanting to let him see the "next day" affects of what he might write to the world, but I took pity on the poor guy. He asked for his laptop so he could get some work e-mails done. Again, this was a no. Jon need not be fired. I'm pregnant with #4 and I would not do poverty well.
Ultrasound was clear, no clots. Good deal. Jon was still in writhing pain. The doctor came in, checked him out, diagnosed no gout but perhaps a lingering back, nerve issue (jon also has back issues) gone awry. Doc asked about Jon's diet to assess his gout. Jon said, "uh, it's not great." Doc asked what set off his gout typically. Jon said, "uh, I dunno." I finally had to step in. "Well, the Wendy's BACONATOR is one of his favorites, he had that Friday night." The doc looked at me wide eyed and said, "really? There's a sandwich called the baconator?" Uh, yeah, Jon snorted that one out months ago. Doc suggested strongly Jon avoid future baconator trips ... but this was not gout. This explains why the gout pills were not touching the pain. The doc then suggested prednisone for the swelling, and another narcotic for the pain so Jon could actually walk out of the hospital without wanting immediate amputation. Jon was in so much pain at this point, he again agreed to more narcotics, the morphine had worn off.
The doctor asked the standard, "any allergies" questions. Jon said no, but that he had taken some narcotic one time that my little brother had given him and it had some wierd side effects. OMG. I had a flashback. Jon had a severe gout attack a year prior and we were visiting my Mom. Josh (my brother) was there, and he offered Jon some pill he had so Jon could at least sleep through the night. Jon had not brought his gout pills on vacation. Jon finally accepted the offer. Again, since Jon never takes anything stronger than Motrin, he's a raving idiot on any narcotic. I told the doctor that I couldn't remember what the pill was, but the side effect was a little more than "wierd", and heaven help me if Jon was given that particular narcotic ever, ever, again.
I then proceeded to tell the doctor about my night from hell when Jon took the magic yellow pill. He spent the better portion of the night waking me up, repeatedly, beginning with, "honey, honey, I'm going to poop my pants ... seriously, going to poop my pants!" followed by his narcotic induced plan to NOT poop his pants, "honey, honey, we have to have sex or I'm going to poop my pants." His sex to not poop his pants plan went from a passing thought to an insistent urgent need to solve his poop his pants problem. He was dying, possibly pooping his pants, and sex was the only cure. This went on ALL NIGHT LONG. The doctor sort of looked at me dumbfounded trying not to laugh his ass off. I told him it was so NOT funny, and so completely true.
The nurse gave Jon some prednisone, narcotic cocktail. No heart attack this time, but immediate "high" for Jon. When the nurse left the room Jon informed me that he would drive home, and the hospital bed was big enough for me to "hop on" and have sex in this most sexy of places, the ER. It seems Jon's "id" (for you psyc majors) takes over when he's high. Then the babbling began, he wanted his cell phone to call some friends and employees to talk about office crap, he wanted to know why the waiting rooom was Tijauana, he wanted his computer, he wanted me to go home, he wasn't "high", he loved me, he was not as attentive this pregnancy, he needed to mow the lawn when we got home (mind you, it was midnight now), he wanted Drew to be his new apprentice at work, blah, blah. He would NOT shut up. When the nurse retuned I told her I would give her $1000 to shut him up because I could not take this babbling idiot home. She just laughed, it wasn't funny, then Jon started telling the nurse she was "awesome" and "the best nurse EVER!" Heaven help us all.
We finally got out of the ER. Me driving the idiot home, exhausted, grateful his pain was gone, but telling him to shut up repeatedly. When we pulled in the driveway I told him, "Jon, you're high. You may not think you're high, but you are. Don't go into the boys room to tuck them in, you'll scare them. Get to the bed, immediately. He was insistent he was "good" and I threatened him. He made it inside, then started stumbling around insistent he wanted to kiss the kids goodnight and make sure Caden was covered up with his blanket. He's a caring Dad, even when he's high. I had to be firm and stern and direct his butt to bed.
I was downstairs getting him some toast and water so he could take his pill. Then I heard a thud at the top of the stairs followed by, "uh, I think I need a towel." I thought this was it, he had indeed pooped his pants wiht this narcotic. Fortunately, he had just tippd over at the top of the stairs and dropped his glass of water. Relief. Got him into the room, he had to go potty, he fell asleep on the potty. I was so tired and torked at this point I jsut left him there. He came around about an hour later and mumbled something about, "I'm okay, I'm good," He crashed into the bed, I gave him his pain pill, and he proceeded to continue blathering like an idiot for 2 freaking hours. It was now 3 am.
I had to wake up at 6 am because Caden was up. I got him situated, then had to go to the pharmacy to get Jon's prednisoe, narcotics scripts filled. Fortuntely, when I came home he was in bed watching cartoons with Caden. Caden didn't mind his blithering nonsensical talk. Of course, Caden's 2.
Jon's asleep now ... I'm awake on this computer, and I had about 3 hours of sleep last night. He talked about getting to church this morning then moved on to mowing the lawn then again requested his phone and laptop to get some work done. Then he passed out.
There are no morals to this story. I'm just tired.
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AND THE CAT MAKES 5
Caesar, aka the "CAT", donning his baseball opening day attire.