Hellos, Everybun!
Last Sunday Night
The soft poops are really bad. I get a bum baf and blow dry to "pure fluff." I'm patient, but have to listen to "dur, dur, dur, Mr. Bun, dur, dur, something, something, dur, dur, Mr. Bun."
The hoomin has to do a deep clean of where I hid all day. The good news is the soft poops are finally abating.
M*nd*y
We get an early appointment window at Avian for a full visit this time. Buntie Susan comes to the rescue with a ride to the clinic. We workshop posts for the remainder of the week.
Dr. Zellner works her magic on my gut and breaks up the gas cloud in my gizzard - things are starting to move now. She loosens up and moves the bladder store away from the "outflow valve," and I express myself easily.
I hear something about another ten days of Trimeth/Sulfa.
In the evening I'm finally gifting some proper poop, and I'm caught loafing tucks-out. The hoomin just loses it from excitement. I'm the Sistine Chapel, the agony and ecstasy.
We stay up late, but don't art tonight. Nobunny can see straight anymore, and my hoomin is struggling with my meds. He tries to give Hydro and Citrate, but both syringes are empty. Or so the things. By the time he goes to the kitchen and starts to draw the meds, he can't tell if I got them already or not.
I get a final belleh massage for the night, and we all bolt to get away bun another.
Tuesday
This has been a week. I feel a lot better though. After my daily fluids, I don't hide anymore. So, all the meds for the first part of the day are done. When the daytime nap hibernation commences, we all thump the sigh of relief. The homin won't bug me till the evening, unless I telepathically demand a cookie. And I do.
I get very startled during evening meds. I just don't see them coming, and I'm having a freakout. He better adjust something next time around!
A minute later, Gus and I are loafing at the baby gate - this is a good old day.
Way past bedtime, we art. I stay the night in the art room.
Wednesday
I'm up early. Where's the breakfast? Where's my morning salad? Did something happen? A little bit of a "dry leaf snack" will have to do.
The evening comes, and I'm tucks out in the bundo, on "the first story, or the second story - depends on how you count.
The evening meds ambush comes - I run. Yada, yada, yada, Hydro and Citrate go down, then Sulfa - but not without a fight.
"Appeasement Cilantro and Mint" get served - more like "teased." Just a sprig of each!? Did something happen!?
At about nine in the evening, I get my 0.6 of Metacam. I'm not chaffed. My hoomin wants to like scream like a Macaw at the vet's office that overheard something about roasting and Thanksgiving.
The days are getting shorter.
We art for only a few minutes. The biped is attaching the small sheet of paper with ferocity, graphite, and wet sponge, hoping for something "terrific." I'm posing, stretched out - ain't that terrific enough!?
Thursday
I almost binky this morning. The fluids and meds happen fast, but I'm still mad. I mean feisty.
We're wings level, climbing into a puffy cloud layer of "boring," but the week starts to feel like it's been a year.
We enjoy the blackout, the far side of the Moon, away from getting harassed by the hoomin with cookies and whatnots. We sleep hard.
Friday
This one we put in the "good old days" category. Everybunny and their mother get pics of my golden orbs. I make my own golden globes.
We nap; the homin throttles back to idle the second he puts the lid on the tar pits for the week.
When I flop on my side and make tiny snoring sounds, the biped steals more pics. Does it count as arting?
Later on, we are tucks out and pencils out.
And today? My biped will try to chill and become somewhat less diss-possessed. Good luck with that.
- Charlie
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