There’s insulin sitting in my fridge now, and sixty syringes in the cupboard. Tomorrow I gotta go in and take a little workshop in “How To Shoot Up The Cat.” It occurs to me, somewhat belatedly, that since this will be medical waste, I gotta go get a sharps container. Whee! Insulin is surprisingly cheap, too–500 cat doses for thirty bucks. Not that it makes it anymore fun to administer, but y’know.

Still, he’s a good cat, and he doesn’t deserve to have his fat and snuggly existence brought to a close merely because I’m squeamish about pointy things. And I’m sure in a week it’ll be old hat. I told James that he should learn to do it in case I’m ever out of town, and he gave me a look of horror and said “Me? By myself?” as if I’d suggested he walk through grizzly country with a honey-smeared salmon down his pants. (Despite this protest, I’m sure he’ll learn.)

Today was pretty good, all in all–after working for most of the evening, I am back on schedule for projects, even a bit ahead. The lowballing company finally got back to me to say that they didn’t want quite so much as they’d said, although they’re still at about half what I got last time, so I sent them my polite, enthusiastic, name-of-contact-person-laden letter asking if the scope of the project had changed and laying out numerous specific numbers–we’ll see if they fold or stand firm. (Never fear, all, I won’t be taking it if they can’t meet my pricetag.) So we’ll see how that goes.

Tonight, I think I’m gonna lounge around and play “Rise of Nations” until I am consumed with guilt at around eight-thirty, and start laying out the next Digger or something.