The Union is Unwell
O woe. The Handsome Guy has been doing his utmost to garner my sympathy. On Friday, he finally succumbed to the horrific cold that was playing footsie with him all week prior and has spent the last five days hacking his face off. It's really quite disturbing to watch him cough so hard. I'm constantly battling the urge to secure his head to the rest of him with a sturdy collar of duct tape, lest the next violent round of hacking rip it from its' moorings and send it rocketing across the room and through a window or something. I'm starting to suspect the local door and window merchants also have the same fear (albeit radically different motives) because... and I'm so not making this up... I've fielded phonecalls from them TWO evenings in a row.
They may get the opportunity to sell us a new window yet... I'm afraid i'm coming down with the same ickity virus myself. I'm popping echinecea and vitamin C left, right and center in a valiant attempt to stave it off, but I'm beginning to feel like some cartoon character gripping the edge of a cliff whilst another cartoon character pries my fingers loose one by one with some ACME tool of some sort. Eeeee...ee...eee....eeee.
okay. So I know this is hardly riveting stuff here, but I'm being fixed with Finny Brand Sad Eyes, the Saddest Eyes In The Whole of the World (TM) and have to go walk my woof while I still have the will to move. I mean, just look at this... could you resist? I think not. Not unless you have a heart of coal and mean, mean, mean.