I’ll be honest: I don’t like sports.

In fact, to say I don’t like sports is to say that Dick Cheney doesn’t like holy water.

So now that we have an understanding, I can tell you about the vet.

The vet, you say?

The vet, I say.

What does that have to do with hockey?

I’m getting there.  Stop interrupting.

We were talking about the cat.  Well, to be precise, I was talking about the cat.  Over the past few days, I was talking about the cat.  The cat who is now extorting huge amounts of money from us on a revolving door at the vet’s office.  I think he has successfully managed the feline equivalent of kitty-napping himself, ala Cleavon Little in Blazing Saddles….

One false move and the n—- gets it.

Do what he say… Do what he say!!!!

[if you haven't seen Blazing Saddles, stop reading this blog, run out and purchase a copy.  I'll wait.......]

The latest, as I understand it, is that our adorable little bugger apparently has diabetes (he’s four, for no particular reason).  But simple diabetes would in no way be sufficient for this cat… the vet is concerned about his white cell count.  He probably has a Super Infection (it’s just like a regular infection but it wears a cape and tights) and will require antibiotics long before they can look at treating the diabetes.

My wife, a nurse, asked me how we were going to get the meds into him.  I suggested darts.  I know I can’t do needles, but sometimes aiming projectiles at him is well within my capabilities.

And speaking of insulin, we will have the choice of giving him regular old insulin or some new-fangled human insulin that we have to pick up at a regular pharmacy, which has a ninety percent remission rate in this practice.

Now we all know that my insurance isn’t going to pay for insulin for my cat.  Personally I find this grossly species-ist on the part of my employer.  They’ll cover all the bloody ankle-biting bipeds in a house but the moment you say quadruped, they all laugh at you.  Or at very least they all laugh at me.  Plus they have to write the prescription out for Satan Leftystrat, which is a bit of a giveaway.

My wife told the vet that she had to write for double the amount of meds because the moment the dog sees the cat getting medicine, he’ll want some too.

——-

Meanwhile, Marshall the cocker had a Spa Day<tm> today.  Anybody else would say that the dog went to the groomer but Marshall marches with his own paws, so to speak.  My wife told me she never saw him so anxious to get anywhere before.

——-

So what of hockey, you ask?

Are you going to continue interrupting me throughout the whole blog or may I continue?

Ok, so it’s ten p.m. and I’m finally done all of the work I’m going to do today.  In other homes, it’s Miller Time.  In our home, it’s Dinner Time.  And let’s face it: I don’t even drink beer and I know not to drink Miller.

My nephew is staying over for a few days and he ate already.  My wife is in the midst of levitating furniture on the second floor.  I say this because the last time I helped move something, I spent the better part of a week on my back.  Since her back is worse than mine, she must be using telekinesis to arrange things up there.

Dinner consists of chicken lasagna.  No, really, chicken lasagna….

Don’t ask me - I just got done working.

Even lukewarm, it’s pretty decent (much to my surprise).  It’s not really what you think.    It’s kind of like a sick marriage of pot pie and lasagna with absolutely no tomato sauce whatsoever.  I think the success of this alleged dish lays entirely with the fact that it contains absolutely no tomato sauce whatsoever.

But wait - it gets better (if you order now….).  Mountain Dew has a new flavor.  Nobody know why.  I like Mountain Dew.  I love Mountain Dew Code Red.  Now there’s Mountain Dew Throwback, with real sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup (it’s good).  Tonight my wife brought home Mountain Dew with a touch of cherry flavor.  I have no earthly idea what this is about, as this pretty much describes Mountain Dew Code Red.  It would seem that Pepsi’s marketing department went out for a Crack Break and might never have come back.

——-

Oh yeah, Hockey.

The scene starts in the living room.  My nephew is practicing his guitar through a headphone amp and wearing large over-the-ear headphones.  It’s nice to see someone enjoy their hobby.  I should practice more too.

I cannot explain, however, why guitar practice requires a hockey game on the telly… especially when I don’t have any large over-the-ear headphones for my own protection.  Sure, it’s kinda neat to hear the puck zoom from left to right for the first time (Hockey: now in Dolby<tm> sound).

Ok, I have to admit that the first five minutes were pretty cool.  I used them to work on my Canadian accent.  It’s fun to imitate the announcers (there is a requirement that all the players, announcers, and janitors have a Canadian accent) but it’s way more interesting to try to keep the accent in normal conversation (,eh?).

But alas, five (ok, closer to three) minutes of this was more than enough hockey for me.  My nephew seemed nonplussed and was non-reachable due to the aforementioned large over-the-ear headphones.  Since my wife warned… err…. asked me nicely to be nice to him, I dared not change the channel.

So here I blog, whilst being tortured by hockey and trying to figure out how we’re going to pay for Kitty Insulin (and tires - don’t ask).

Marshall, looking spiffy after his Spa Day<tm>, is doing his part.  After being exposed to an hour of hockey, he’s standing at the back door, asking to be let oot.