No, not the weasels, thank God. Just the humans. I contracted some kind of vicious plague on Christmas Eve, managed to tough it out through Christmas morning and then collapsed into a NyQuil haze for 72 hours. During which time Mr. A had to pack the car, cancel the remainder of our trip, drug my sick ass up and drag me home and into bed. He then spent the next couple of days handling our whole lives like a boss while I whined and complained and hacked up bits of my lungs.
As a reward he’s now come down with whatever unholy hybrid of chest cold/flu/fever this is. Everybody take handfuls of vitamin C RIGHT NOW. I haven’t been knocked on my ass like this in ten years. When I said I wanted to spend a couple of days in bed eating Christmas cookies and still lose five pounds, I should have been more specific.
The beasties have been remarkably patient with the lack of attention they’re getting, is the upshot. They’ll probably give me another day or so before they trash the cage and hide the car keys under the piano, but for now they’re using their adorableness to cheer me right up:
A.