Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Match Box

The little kitty is having a little hiccup.
I think it's fine.
I don't think he's in pain.
But, he might be in some mild discomfort.
But, we can't know for sure, because he can't tell us what it feels like.
He just stares at us and cries.
Little muffin.
We got some antibiotics, and they disappear nicely into his little treats, and he gobbles em' right up.
Thank Theresa and everyone on her bus.
I can't operate a syringe right now,
I mean I could,
But, it might suck the marrow from my entire belief system.
Little muffin.
He looks skinny.
I hate when people suddenly look skinny.
I would never hate Match Box.
You know what I mean.
I despise lean, as a concept, or a destination.
All things deserve to be sturdy, to walk out, to lean is to depend, and we don't do that here.
Not as an end result anyway.

He'll be fine.

We all have our weak parts.
I have my asthma.
Friend boy has his jaw aches.
Chi-Chi has his residual effect from his respiratory infection.
And matchbox has his sensitive little bladder.

Skin and Toast

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