I've spent the day in bed with a sprained ankle. I was very luck it didn't break — I tripped and fell on the stairs this morning, and had to get x-rayed at Group Health. Everyone was surprised when the x-rays didn't show a fracture. The ankle is showing signs of improvement already, and I'm wearing a cute little black lace-up ankle brace that looks rather steampunk. I'm relying on ibuprofen and have the painkillers down to a minimal level. (They gave me a huge dose this morning at the hospital because they thought they were going to have to put me in a cast.)
Tom has been doing my list of household chores, from laundry to cooking a pot roast to cleaning up all the paperwork on the dining room table. Sadly, he looks as harassed and exhausted as I usually do on Sunday nights, and is just as unwilling to actually stop working and get to bed.
The cats' behavior is fascinating. I screamed in pain for a few minutes when I went down this morning, and now the cats are either comforting me or patrolling the yard for the predator that they (logically) think must have attacked one of their pack. This is not just a fanciful interpretation. The only cat that is not either comforting me or being vigilant is Sheba: being deaf, she didn't hear me scream and is unaware of any threat.
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