Snorre and I are up late in the living room after our naps. Actually, Snorre is back down for another nap. Hamsters! This is just as well - Snorre is... I don't even want to admit this because I feel like it's payback for all the outraged smirking I used to do at Ritalin (which I'd now LOVE a license to dispense, preferably as a room spray).... but Snorre is one freakin' biteymouth.
I don't know why. We're trying to fix it. Gone are the days of walking around with hamsters on the shoulder (Annie Daffodil) or hamsters running into the hand and gazing up adoringly, mouths closed (almost everyone else). Now it's all, "Ow, Snorre! Here, want a - ow! Ow! OW! STOP. Snorre. Snorre. Ow. I just want to - OW. Snorre! Bad hammie! Fine. Down you go."
Which is weird because he wants to be picked up, he likes being patted, and he's just incredibly soft and irresistable, but... ow.
(Yes, I've checked his teeth. Maybe he simply enjoys the flesh? Maybe we'll take him to Fuddruckers this weekend... and not to Cabo at Red Rock, where I've vowed not to return until I can forget the incredibly mediocre at times actually bad service. I'd elaborate, but then you know I'd get all those comments about how I don't understand how hard waiting tables is and how I shouldn't complain if the waiter does things like spill salsa across the table and walk away or simply hands you a binderless bill then acts surprised that you're paying by credit card.)
Switching topics, perhaps the saddest thing about Kevin DuBrow's death (over on the east/southeast side of town) is remembering that Quiet Riot's one really big hit was a cover. And a cover from a song recorded ten years before. Or maybe the saddest things is that they didn't find the body for six days.
Speaking of death, my cat is old, and we should prepare ourselves for a certain kind of post coming soon. Last week I had a dream that was so vivid and so happy; the former is rare and the latter is almost non-existent. In this dream, Phros was leaving. My mom alerted us to her suffering. After checking on her, I walked into the next room (the living room in real life), where I discovered many of the now-gone hams playing. "So this is where you've been!"
They had huge habitrails and playpens and free range areas. I was holding Barnard as I walked around, watching Minerva burrowing, laughing at Cordelia playing, letting Snug and Snout joyfully run in and out and in and out and in and out of my hand. I looked down (as I held Barnard to my face) and saw Isaac hopping around on his back legs, wanting to be acknowledged. This went on for awhile and I had a great time being with them, and I woke up with a huge grin on my face. By the time it sank in that it was a dream, I was still smiling, just because it had been so much fun, playing and getting to hold them again. It felt (and still feels) as real as any memory. I can cup my hands right now and feel dream-Barnard again, or look over in the corner and see Minerva diving around in all his fluffins.
I told my parents and Mike about the dream as insurance that nothing would happen to Phros. After all, it's always when you don't tell people about your dreams that they come true, right? Then later you're saying, "this is just like my dream!", but feeling foolish and overly dramatic.
But then tonight Dad messaged me to say Phros wasn't well, that Mom came to him and said she thinks Phros is suffering, that she'll go to the vet of course, but Dad's not optimistic. Dad also said, "I guess your dream was true, just off by a few days." For the record, there isn't any thrill in being right sometimes.
However, Euphrosyne is 17-and-a-half, and I did get to just see her (after nearly three years) on our trip to Texas, and after such a good dream with the hamsters, I cannot doubt that whatever her future holds, it will be nothing but happiness for her.
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