A while back, eeeerrrrr’body got sick.

It started with me. (As all things do & should.) I woke up Saturday morning with a tickle in my throat. The next day, I was absolutely miserable with a face & chest cold. I hyperventilated whether I should miss work or possibly spread COVID (thanks to one awful experience with a phone call with former boss berating me for missing work while I puked in the toilet with food poisoning). In the end, I realized that getting sick happens, my current boss is amazing to work with, and it was better for everyone if I stayed home.

But then.

Taylor caught my cold. He woke up with fevers, chills, snot: the whole song & dance. He, too, fell apart like the dissolved people in Endgame.

(And, I know you’re wondering, did we have COVID? Taylor tested and it came back negative. By the time he had gotten his test, I was feeling quite a bit better.)

Of course, with Taylor out for the count, and I in recovery, this meant our house fell apart, leaving the small children to lead themselves in a day worthy of competing against the Lord of the Flies. This really wasn’t as tragic as it seems, because Arrow CRAVES to take over as Mother of the Household. In her newfound dictatorship, Arrow determined that rules were for the weak, Lucky Charms were perfectly acceptable for all meals, and coloring on the walls was, like, new age art.

Taylor & I, with very clogged sinuses, wearily cheered them on before dozing off on our sick beds on the couch.

Unfortunately, their little mutinies didn’t last very long. The colds caught up to them too. During my first day back at work, the daycare called for me to pick up the boys because Sander had started running a fever. Arrow soon followed suit. (Archer, interestingly, never got sick. We noticed that he’s the only one to have gotten his flu shot this year. Maybe that’s what kept him healthy through this rough week!)

Now, with this very long backstory, this gives you an idea how hectic this sick week was. Because Junior, the cat, also got sick.

He had started peeing in our shoes, which we thought to be a territorial thing. Then, he peed in my laundry basket. I wondered if he was purposely marking my clothing as a kinda creepy alpha male thing. A friend suggested that I take him to the vet just to get him checked out. Taylor, who was in his weekly rage about being a cat owner, was about the baptize Junior into being an outdoor cat. I was desperate to help him not become an outdoor cat, so I took him to the cat doctor.

Arrow came along as a friend to comfort The June.

When the vet returned my wailing cat back to me, he was pronounced with a urinary tract infection, and given some oral meds to ward off the warlocks, evil spirits, and kidney infections. Before his examination, Junior had looked me straight in the eyes and wailed from the vet’s arms, clearly crying for his mama. After the examination, this is what Junior thought of his meowther.

It did make me wonder. Was the vet and his invasive procedures the jailor in Junior’s eyes? Or is it I?

Love you buddy. Quit peeing in my laundry basket. ❤