July 21, 2008
Non-anecdote (within a non-series)
Today was to have been the day I hit the ground running, embarking with confidence on renewed schemes to amass Wealth and to promote and create Art.
Eight hours ago I went to bed. Six hours ago I was awakened by the sound of my cat, Lena, sneezing ferociously. Ferociously and frequently. (We will very likely visit the vet today. O joy.) I could not conceive what might have set it off. And I wasn’t thinking too clearly, it being a quarter to four am, so, being both alarmed and annoyed as well, I contrived a thin speculation. “Could it be the hand lotion I applied [to myself]? Is it asphyxiating my beloved pet?” Working on this flimsy supposition, I opened the sliding glass door to allow outside air to enter through the screen.
Heart. of. Darkness. Congolese miasma. Indescribably oppressive. Heat lightning off to the west. Of course, the cat, who seemed fine save for regular violent convulsions, agitated to go out, and in my delirium, it seemed that perhaps a little fresh air would be just the thing. Except that it was anything but fresh. But I let her out to sit and sneeze on our deck, then our northside neighbor’s deck, then our southside neighbor’s deck, until I felt the onset of a (sympathetic?) asthma attack. So I gulped two tablets of a stimulating drug, which eased the asthma but kind of woke me up, at which point I grew concerned that if my cat were outside asphyxiating, how would I find her after I’d called the vet’s emergency number and pled, “Wake up Dr. Wade! Tell him to pull on his britches and meet me at his office!” So I went out into the horrible Congo in bare feet and a nightshirt, crying, “Lena! Lena!” Heard little sneezes but could not pinpoint them. More heat lightning. Thunder. Condensation so heavy that I thought at first it had already rained. Bare feet now wet bare feet.
Upshot: Finally coaxed sneezing cat inside. Saw a glimmer of snot rimming one nostril. Tried to wipe her face. She ran away. Later jumped onto the bed in order to shove up against me and sneeze. I may have gotten to sleep around 6:00 am. Alarm rang one hour and forty-five minutes later. I postponed the inevitable for another forty-five minutes.
Yes, today was to have been the Day. But it appears that today will not only require a trip to the vet but a trip to Dubuque. To LensCrafters, although my optometrist is in Chicago. Last week I broke my last spare pair of glasses, and yesterday I destroyed one of the lenses of my remaining pair of contacts. I don’t think I could drive to Chicago using only the glasses I use specifically for working at the computer. It will be interesting to see whether I can drive to Dubuque.
I am no longer wheezing, but let us pretend that I am so that I can say I am blind and wheezing, gasping for breath in a Congolese miasma.
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May all good things happen to ye in Dubuque. And please–use “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner” as your soundtrack for the drive.
Get better fast!
True confession: on more than one solo drive, be it from Galena to Dubuque and back, or up and down the length of Illinois, or out in the desert or what-you-will, I have amused myself by bellowing as many as half a dozen Warren Zevon songs in a row.
Always including “Poor, Poor Pitiful Me” and “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead”.
Frequently including “Roland”.
Patty Hearst
Heard the burst
Of Roland’s Thompson gun
And bought it.
Oh, and Cooper, don’t forget: “The deal was made in Denmark on a dark and stormy day.”