Stephen King Thinks He Knows Misery?!

Ivy, the granddog Goldendoodle,  is staying with us while her family goes  to Disney World.   She left a house with three lively boys and a playful kitten for one where two of the occupants are levitating between moribund and hereafter and the third one doesn’t like dogs.  (That last occupant, by the way, IS a dog. )

Dearly Beloved and I wouldn’t be talking at all if it weren’t to whine about which one of us is sicker.  Neither of us is a good patient, especially when there are no nursemaids around to minister to us.

While I didn’t get that much sympathy initially, he has offered profuse apologies for his previous lack of sensitivity, possibly in the hope that I will do my Clara Barton imitation.

Fat chance.

Miss Piggy does not acknowledge Ivy’s presence.  In fact, she is so certain that Ivy does not exist that she assumes ALL the chew bones are hers and piles them up in her bed, then chews frantically to eat them all.

On the other hand,  Ivy is learning a trick or two herself.  At her house she is a slow and picky eater, nibbling at her cup of kibble throughout the day.   No more.  By her third day here, she was sliding around the corner on two legs to stand ready in front of her food bowl as soon as she heard the rustle of the bag.

All the misery makes this Camp Big Yawn for an active dog, so yesterday I decided I’d take the dogs for a walk.  I pulled on overalls over my pajamas.

Miss Piggy went half a block, did her business, and planted herself.  The only way she was going any farther was if I pulled her like a runnerless sled.  I brought her back, then slogged out again with Ivy prancing around me.  We walked about six blocks on the icy sidewalks without incident, but I didn’t want to push my luck.  Back home again, only one of us was panting.

It wasn’t the dog.

Today, DB tried taking her, but the pallor on his face indicated it didn’t go as he’d hoped.  He pooped out before she pooped.  He brought her home and put her in the back yard to chase critters, then assumed his prone position on the couch.

Because Ivy gives me looks that say, “Hey, do you realize that my other grandmother rides scooters?–the KID kind??” I sometimes put on a coat and go outside to let her run circles around me.  That counts… right?

Alas, the only game played here is Pass the Virus.  Two different bugs or one long siege?  As Little Focker’s granddad would say, “double dose.” Our house sounds like a detox center–phlegmy coughs, moans, shuffling steps.  Thank goodness we have two sofas so that neither of us has to stay upright.

DB’s voice sounds as if a sumo wrestler is sitting on his chest, so on the occasion he does try to speak, I can’t hear him.  It is hard, even when we are in the same room (the preferred method for conversation) or he’s at least facing in my direction, but generally, the checkered talking flag doesn’t drop until he is well on the way down the hall.  That makes me cranky.

This afternoon I heard a crash in the kitchen, then a mutter.

“What was that?” I called out from the sofa.

“Mumble…mumble.”

“WHICH DIRECTION ARE YOU FACING?,” I yelled grouchily, to remind him that I couldn’t hear him.

“Right now I’m facing the floor, picking up this broken cup.”

Although the question of which one of us is sicker is still unresolved, DB did make one irrefutable claim of victory today.

“My cough is more repulsive than yours.”

When the man is right, he’s right.

Miss Piggy full of chew bones.

Like my flaps down?

Or UP?

Can't decide?

YUM! Were those truffles?