Incompetent

The blisters on my left index finger are probably shingles. I've had bouts of them before, fortunately always minor. They crop up when I'm anxious about something. This time its undoubtedly my sickly cat and my really crappy cat-care that's making me anxious. The kitty's life is just pathetic. She sleeps, she nibbles, she drinks a bit of water, and she gives me mournful looks and the occasional pitiful meow. Now and then I make her take what must be really nasty tasting medicine, though I seldom succeed in getting more than part of it into her.

She's been in this state for over a week now, without noticeable improvement. She's nothing but fur and bones and pathos. She might as well kill me and eat me, for all the good I'm doing her. I guess I'll have to take her back to the vet, who will undoubtedly scold me for my inadequate care and will confiscate the cat, and then will probably have me arrested for cat abuse. I'll be jailed at the animal shelter, where I'll be raped by my cellmates, a gang of dobermans dobermen rottweilers, but at least the cat will be placed in a home with someone who will know how to take proper care of her, so I guess the world will be a better place.

And now I'm going to go take a shower and hope that those shingle blisters don't break open while they're soapy. Ow.