Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
My husband is not a big fan of Valentine’s Day. He doesn’t like what he calls “manufactured holidays,” and so one where you’re supposed to get the love of your life something—anything—is not that which he enjoys. And of course the one year I got him to go out on the day, his former boss ended up shooting him. There was also the time where we went out to a place where lots of guys in the Italian mob ate and Sam ended up arresting a man who had slipped his witness protection detail. You really haven’t lived until your date gets up, charges across a room, hurls a table aside, throwing food and drinks everywhere, and slams a fellow eater into the wall before cuffing him. No one wants you back after that.
Needless to say, our Valentine’s Day record is absolute crap.
Hannah has turned down all invitations for dates on Valentine’s Day, and there have been many once the word got out that she was single, but Jake—I wonder about his brain sometimes—Jake does have plans to go out, and he shared that information at dinner. No one said a word. I had no idea we could all eat quite that silently. But later that night, when all the kids were playing Call of Duty… Hannah killed Jake a lot. Like a lot, a lot. At one point she ran up on him and shanked him in the face with a machete or something. I don’t know the specifics because I don’t play—I’m crap at shooting games—but he finally yelled and told her to knock it off, and she just shrugged and made her eyes big, like saucers, and asked him why he was upset. I can’t take too much more of it, and on top of that, Chilly is having some problems.
Our cat is getting up there in years. Right now he’s either seventeen or eighteen. I think. Maybe. We weren’t exactly sure how old he was when we got him, and the vet doesn’t know either. As he’s aging, he sleeps more, needs help getting up and down from high places, and there are now strategically placed stools and ottomans, steps to help him get up and down off things that used to be an easy jump. I never have to tell him to get off the counter anymore, as he can no longer manage the leap. The last time we saw the vet, she said we had to start thinking about what we wanted to do for him. She explained about his joint pain, and that even though his teeth were still in very good shape for a cat his age—his electric toothbrush has been a godsend—still, it’s getting harder for him to eat. When I got home and spoke to my husband at length, Sam told me that when Chilly was done, he’d tell us.
“Is it fair for us to keep him around?”
“What does that mean?” Sam asked, stopping the sandwich making he was in the middle of to look at me.
“I mean, are we being selfish if he’s in pain?”
At which point Chilly walked into the room, tail up, yelling because he knew roast beef when he smelled it and where the hell was his?
Sam squinted at me, glanced at the cat, and then back to me. “I think it’s an elaborate ruse.”
“I’m sorry?”
Squatting, Sam held out a piece of meat for our cat, who took it from his hand and ate it. Lots of people had mentioned over the years that cats normally took things from your fingers, dropped them on the ground, and then ate them. Chilly had always been the kind of feline who ate from all our hands. Dobby was the same, but apparently that was to be expected, as he was a dog.
“I think the vet is full of crap. If he’s in pain, if he gets where he can’t walk or relieves himself all over the house or on himself and I know his quality of life is for shit—then we can talk about whatever needs to happen, but at the moment, the cat is trying to claw through my knee for more roast beef, so maybe I’m not so much with the worrying.”
There was quite a bit of kvetching happening from our small white demon, and his claws were clearly hooked into Sam’s right knee. It was lucky he was in jeans or there might have been blood. Chilly was serious about sandwich meat.
“Oh, and for the record, all I want for Valentine’s is to get laid, all right?”
I groaned. Loudly.
“That’s not hot,” he informed me. “More moaning, less with the you’d-rather-have-a-root-canal noise, all right?” He leered at me, waggling his eyebrows.
My sound of disgust was even louder.
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” he apprised me as I left the kitchen. “Wait, do you not want some guidance on this?” he called after me.