The Small One is a wee bit out of it right now.

After an evening of very un-Small-One-like behaviour, yesterday morning we got to partake in a Very Special Easter Egg hunt.

“Very Special” in that it wasn’t Easter.

And the eggs were replaced by small droplets of pee.

Very smelly pee.

So we took him to the vet.

The verdict? He has crystals, which — insert parental warning here — the vet says makes him feel like he is “peeing razor blades”.

[Collective wince.]

So he’s on some pain meds and we just bought a few flats of special wet food that cost as much as our groceries for a week.

(He’s totally worth it.)

He’s already feeling better, but his medication is definitely making him even dopier than normal.

Last night, he spent an hour sitting on the living room floor staring at the leg of the coffee table.

And it wasn’t even doing anything.

I checked.

Periodically.

(You never can tell with that coffee table.)

At the drugstore last night with My Lovely Wife. She’s chatting with the pharmacist while I’m zoning out. My eyes drift behind the counter to the racks and racks of illicit behind-the-counter items. Needles. Tylenol 3 with codeine. Glucose Meters.

And then my eyes stop at the bottom shelf.

One shelf. Roughly two feet long, one foot high. Filled with white plastic jars. No colourful labels or packaging. Just white plastic jars, each with two words printed on them in plain black lettering:

“BUTTOCKS PASTE”

…

Yes. I know. The rational, evolved portion of my brain knows that it is paste for buttocks.

But there is one teeny-tiny piece of my brain that is running into the night, screaming over and over again…

PASTE OF BUTTOCKS! PASTE OF BUTTOCKS! PASTE OF BUTTOCKS!

Prepare yourselves for a tale of horror and despair.

Everything was going just fine this morning. I had coffee. The cats hadn’t thrown up. My Lovely Wife was chipper and cheerful. After finishing up a quick bowl of cereal, I went into the bathroom and had a very invigorating shower. Then I got out and shaved, fixed my hair, and then started to brush my teeth.

My morning teeth-cleaning is the time that I lean back, roll up the window-blinds, and take good long look at what the world holds in store for me. Is it sunny? Does it look windy? Is there snow? Elk? (So far, remarkably few elk. But I still check.)

Today, however, what I noticed first was not the high overcast, nor the swaying branches, nor the lack of elk.

What I noticed today were the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of tiny baby spiders between the screen and the window-pane.

Suffice it to say, my morning was not off to a rip-roaring start after that.

They won’t be coming back though. After a minor attack of the willies, I friggin’ salted the earth on those little bastards.

But still… I’m feeling them on me. They’re in my soul.

…

As long as they’re not in my hair.

…

Hundreds… and hundreds… and hundreds…

*shudder*