Red Whizz, White Panadeine and a Blue Mood
Skipper is crook.
The poor little guy has been peeing cab-sav instead of riesling on The Age newspapers lining his hutch and his usually spotlessly-cleaned white back legs are brown and filthy.
He's still eating and seems perky enough and I'll admit to waiting for a few days before broaching the topic of a vet visit with Love Chunks.....
......but today the wee was not only wed (sorry, 'red') but it stunk like a cross between rotting meat and paint thinner when I lifted up the roof of his two storey townhouse this morning. LC had already gone to work and Sapph had trotted off to school bowed under the weight of her tortoise-shaped backpack and viola case so it was possible to make the call to the vet without raising any protests on either a financial or emotional front.
Mr Migraine had also decided to pay me a long overdue visit. Lying in bed waiting for the Panadeine to persuade my brain to stop self-inflating inside my hammering skull meant that there was still time enough to wallow in my ratty old dressing gown of self pity about another issue before Skipper's 10am appointment.
As per my usual modus operandi, I had become too excited with talk, promises and plans before anything had been made a reality. The regular weekly writing gig I thought was going to be a great opportunity had faded like four-hour painkillers when the promised appointment and follow-up phone call did not eventuate. Like Miss Havisham at the bridal table, I waited by the phone on Monday and knew by silent Friday that my services were no longer required.
Disappointed but accepting, I visited her website to see what she'd decided to write instead.
Maybe she's going to contact me this Monday, I told myself. Maybe she was out by a week and thought our first meeting was today. Maybe she's going to see what reaction my writing gets and then discuss a payment.
Groping my way out of the shower and drying myself ever-so-slowly (the noise of the towel fibres against my face...painful! The electric toothbrush...agony! Pulling a t-shirt over my bulbous, beating head - PHARKen excruciating!), I put aside the getting-louder voices of 'She's ripping you off' and focussed on Skipper.
Rattling around in our freezing back shed wasn't going to happen today, so the rabbit was gently bundled in a couple of Milly's dog washing towels and wheeled around the corner in our portable shopping trolley. We earned a few curious stares as the trolley bulged and jiggled past the students at the tram stop ('Geez, your food must be really fresh') and turned the corner.
$99 and ten minutes later, Skipper might - yes, just might, because even the vet couldn't get a decent look at his remaining boy bits - have a bladder infection. He took great offence to lying on his back and being groped between the legs and only consented to taking in antibiotics when I held him up to my shoulder like a newborn baby. Still, he did give my ear a couple of reassuring licks, which is as close to purring, or 'I forgive you for my dodgy dark ride and harassment' as a rabbit can get.
Back home, I tried to contact my no-longer-interested but petulantly-plagiaristic perpetrator. Straight to Message Bank. Surely if someone decides to use my writing on their blog, I deserve payment? Someone who is in partnership with a relatively famous divorcee who gained millions from her husband after he left her for his secretary and is therefore not short of a bob....?? Why bother to fleece a home-based writer who'd be lucky to earn enough to lodge a tax return this year......???
It bites even harder because I'm still awaiting some kind of response from Sapphire's school principal about the future of the Writers' Workshop. The more I think about it, the more 'used' I feel - hours of my time, completely unsupervised, unpaid and seemingly no interest shown in rectifying the situation.
I went outside to check on the bunny boy. He was happily snoozing on Sapphire's old purple polarfleece blanket and leapt up to greet me, licking my fingers as I rubbed his nose. He's only two kilograms, but still makes me smile.
I'm sure he'll pull through; as will I.