Puddle

We don't have throw rugs.

We don't have throw rugs because, especially when they are in the bathroom or kitchen, they are Moby's all time, no comparison, absolute favorite place to pee. Utterly magnetic to his little furry butt. Joy in the morning. Aside from the tub, and around the litter boxes, he never goes anywhere else.

So, the bathmat rug must, at all times, be up on the shower rod, unless Moby is on the other side of the closed bathroom door. Even a moment, unattended on the floor, and cat will be sitting there, blissfully taking a piss.

We don't know why, other than he generally likes soft things. Perhaps something from his first two years, before we found each other. One of his very few annoying habits, including the odd missing of the litter box, so we consider ourselves fortunate.

Today at work, I scrubbed seven cases, finishing up just after 1500, a very good day with a sense of accomplishment. Cleaning up the last one, a puddle of water on the floor unfooted me, and I went down hard on my ass. Jolted and stunned, I managed to crawl away from the puddle and patient, and assure everyone around me that I was fine, really ok, but needed to catch my breath, just shocked. The sobbing contradicted me, but mostly I just felt as though every nerve had been twanged, and I was not really in pain, as such. It took me a minute or so, I managed to get up, and, with another nurse called in to help, finished my part of the final clean up for the day. By the time we were done, I'd stopped crying, and although shaky, in no real pain. If I'm aching in the morning, I will fill in a report, well within the legally required 24 hours.

Grateful for the new jeans that are easier to get on for the change from scrubs, then the therapy balls in my back for the drive, I got home.

D helped me get the bath going, and I got myself tea and drugs. Leaving the door open while in the bath, in case I needed help getting out. I'd been soaking my head for a few minutes, and lurched up, to see Moby sitting on the bathmat I'd put down for when I got out. He looked back at me as if to say "Hey, howya doing?" like a guy at a urinal in a movie. I shooed him out, with difficulty. D came in and scooped up the rug to wash it immediately with the enzymatic cleaner. Moby looked affronted that he was interrupted at his favorite, long denied, pleasure.

Still have to ice, and definitely feeling fragile and shaky, but it doesn't hurt more than usual. Weird that.

And Moby seems to be resigned to our weird human quirks.