Black Doggerel

Remember the black cat with golden eyes that we first met in this entry?

Ever since that meeting, Spike has dragged me towards that house whenever our walks take us that way, in the hope of seeing the cat again. Today he got lucky - Cat was sitting in the driveway. When he saw Spike he snarled and padded towards us. The expression on his face said I KILL YOU, UNWORTHY DOG! The expression on Spike's face was like an Enterprise fanboy hearing Jolene Blalock offer to suck his cock.

Part of me wished I could have stayed there and let them meet. But - although Cat was almost certainly bluffing - I'm not willing to find out how Spike would react if a cat really tried to hurt him. Besides, Squish started yapping so I really couldn't stay.

Mood much improved. I do love my dogs.

There's nothing like unceasing low-grade pain for putting you in a bad mood. I realise this isn't news to a lot of my f-list, and I know a lot of you have it far worse than I do, and I'm sorry for that - but mine's the one I have to live with, and I'm fucking fed up to the back teeth with it.

I really shouldn't be typing as much as I am, but for six days out of seven it's pretty much the only contact I have with any of the people I actually chose to have in my life. It's hard enough keeping the IM switched off - LJing and posting isn't as bad, because I can do it slowly and carefully with my arms resting on a cushion. It still hurts, but I can't cut myself off entirely, I'd lose my mind.

Spike is so frustrated it's not funny. He's alternating psycho barking hose beast mode with sad-eyed clingy mode, and it's breaking my heart. I'm going to go to Mum's early tomorrow so she can Squish-sit for a bit while I take him for a football game. I should be able to do that one-armed, at least. Squish could obviously use a run as well, but he doesn't actually melt down like Spike does when he doesn't get it. I'm letting them bounce and wrestle in the flat more than I usually do. I hope it hasn't got to the point where Downstairs Neighbour is going to complain to the housing officer.

The cleaning's backed up, and both the flat and Grimmauld Place look like shitholes - well, Grimmauld Place has been a shithole for a good ten years now, but Mum keeps phoning me every couple of days to ask if my arm's recovered enough to do any of her cleaning yet. *headdesk*

My left wrist is acting up because it's having to do twice its normal work and it's never been as strong. The leashes are the worst part. The dogs do know how to not pull, but they're feeling their oats at the moment - and there are the eternal, ubiquitous cats. We rarely get round the block without meeting at least one - today there were four, and I can still feel each one.

One of yesterday's cats was a good one, though - a big black one with golden eyes and an attitude. Instead of running away he drew himself up and snarled at the dogs. Spike was absolutely smitten - we stood there doing a Mexican stand-off for a good five minutes before Squish's impulse control failed and he started yapping and I had to drag them away.

That's the sort of cat we want. Although I'm increasingly convinced that taking on any more responsibilities would be a bad idea - I'm barely doing justice to the few that I have - it would certainly help Spike.

Have also been insanely horny all week, to the point where it was just adding to the bad mood - more like a desperate, not-quite-scratchable itch than a pleasure. Even if I didn't have ongoing foot rot - it's improving, but it's not gone - I've found that's not a good state to pick up strange men in. It scares them, poor dears. There is no sophistry in my body; my manners are tearing off heads. At least that problem's solveable.

Roll on tomorrow. I'm goin' to bed.