It’s 2am and the cats have given up. For the last 24 hours, perhaps 30, I’ve been sick as a dog (though, to my experience, sick as a cat is perhaps more appropriate, though this might imply more of a mental element) – dripping without warning, feeling cold, and my throat has felt like burning sand paper. By now it’s somewhat dying down (the sandpaper is now simply kind of dry and warm), though I’m still huddled beneath blankets.
I’ve been lying in bed much of the day, wishing it all away through sleep, but like a poor marksman… sleep… keeps … missing… the TARGET.
We’re staying with Tom and Diane in Durham. And we’re staying with their cats. The cats, due to recent run-ins with a dog and traffic, have been locked-down and are unhappily being forced into an inside Life. They are NOT taking this lying down, however. As a matter of fact, they are taking it strutting around, crying and whining like children. They assisted my throat in promoting last night’s insomnia. They kept me up through much of the day… but tonight, there is ominous silence. Perhaps merely because Heather’s still in the Living room, keeping them company. Perhaps merely because cats really don’t cause a rucus until they feel you have a CHANCE of falling asleep – and I’m nowhere near that. I’m alive with jittery energy, tense, nervous. I feel like I drank an Aztec mocha before bed, and my brain simply WON’T shut down, shut up, shut away the non-existant day.
This visit to Durham consists mostly of the bedroom and throat-angst. I need a lozenge.
Damn. 2.25am, the begging begins. I can hear Heather trying to hush him. Poor cats.
