stressed

It's 2 pm.

Today we picked up the stray cat that lives in the fixture cage behind my Wal-Mart. We took it and Cocoa to the vet, where they both got shots, and we learned that the gray cat is a nine-year-old female American shorthair who tests negative for feline leukemia and feline AIDS. She'd been declawed and probably spayed too, but not microchipped.

They're not getting along.

The washer, dryer and dishwasher are running, as is the vacuum in the garage downstairs, where Patrick is busily cleaning the car of all the fur. The cat's been crying nonstop since we got home. Cocoa's whining, not knowing who or what this new thing is, why it's making the sounds that it does, and why it won't stop.

~*~*~*

I lost my voice Thursday night over dinner with the in-laws. I called in sick yesterday, with sore throat, and slept through most of the day. I'm still not entirely well. My music class is on Tuesdays instead of Mondays, which gives me just three more days to get my voice back.

My usual disease is back: that feeling that everything takes too much effort, that it's all so much more trouble than it's worth, and that I really shouldn't even bother.