Why does this keep happening? As soon as I lay out a day for myself, the fates jump into the laundry basket and stomp around on the clean clothes in their muddy combat boots. I plan to go out to the writing salon, and instead we get Covid. I plan to work on revisions, and instead I spend most of the day at the vet while the cat gets stitches.

Ruckus went out first thing yesterday morning, as is his wont, and came back in shortly thereafter, acting completely normal, but then I noticed a wound on his flank. He'd apparently torn his skin on something sharp: a clean tear, bloodless, but the muscle was visible beneath. So I trundled him off to the vet and he got stitched up and was pathetic and woozy and clingy all evening. And now this morning he is back to his old self. He doesn't appear to notice that he's injured, and he's insisting he should be allowed outside, and is working himself up into a giant scene about the injustice of it all. Hurray, my cat is back to himself! Crap, my cat is back to himself.

The vet said he should wear a cone for 14 days and stay inside for 14 days.

Cone came off within 3 minutes. We'll see if he lasts even a day inside.

Either I am a terrible owner or I am a realist.

* * *

I'll be zooming this afternoon, but this morning I hope to be working outside (with the cat glowering through the door? with the cat basking happily in the driveway?). I need to mow grass, and I should tear out the cucumber plant and maybe the beans as well. Tom will be loading his truck for a dump run, so probably I'll be sucked into that project too.

I made a pork roast for last night's dinner, so I'll likely shred the leftovers and turn them into enchiladas with roasted green-tomato sauce. I might poach some pears. The poem revisions continue to dangle raggedly in the aether.