The headline's nothing much to do with this blog, but it's the title of a book of which I'm fond.
Although it's vaguely appropriate here as things, while not actually chaotic, are currently a bit difficult.
Both cats are not well, Murph still hardly moving after his accident, and Mo, since having his balls cut off, has developed a king of choking cough, as if he had something stuck in his throat.
A vet friend says this is not uncommon, and he'll be all right if we can get his pills down his throat.
Then Tim seems tired and short of energy, and as if his back legs are bothering him, which they probably are as he's ben diagnosed with arthritis. He can't jump up into the car any more. Needs a lift.
Just the normal tribulations of a family, I suppose.
And Reb off in Leon talking to nuns about holiness and pilgrims and such.
Meanwhile, the gloom is encricling, and the rain falls sporadically.
And the floor is covered with paw and foot prints.
And the barn floor is covered with dog poo, though I suppose it's unlikely to be covering the ceiling.
Things could be worse. Mitt might have won.
Plus Bob and the chucks, and Lulu, Harry and Bella are in rude good health.
Bit too rude, at times.
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