I just busted out the food processor and pureed some cat food with a few tablespoons of warm water. Vash lapped up a fair amount, so that's good. It got all over my shirt, so that's bad.
If it turns out he's just burning through his PTO until I'm forced to fire him and pay his severance, I am going to be mightily displeased.
I returned to a Weight Watchers meeting today, after a three week absence. Then I went to the grocery store and bought a cantaloupe and a personal sized watermelon. I have no idea how to cut these things up, but it'll probably be easier than opening a pill bottle.
With a knife.
After sharing my recent short story, two of three readers pointed out some pretty big problems with the first part. (They said it nicely and they were right.) The third reader said it was all "good," but that's because I'm married to him.
So for the last 3 days I've been rewriting the story, trying to get it to say what I meant it to say and not what it said. It's already better than it was, which is excellent, because for about 15 minutes I had a Victorian tantrum in my brain and vowed to find the tallest sea cliff in the Pacific Northwest and fling the manuscript into the choppy waters below, where it could shame me no further.
Ugh. Better go mow that lawn before I work in a whale bone corset metaphor around my Victorian tantrum mode.
Not that there's anything wrong with corsets... or whales... or Victoria...