Another day, another…something or other.

Been busy today getting illos done for an RPG client–hopefully once I’ve digested a bit and my post-pizza lethargy is gone, I’ll be able to finally start crackin’ on the Wombat Fool. (One wonders if this is the opposite of the arrogant wombat that we all despise.) Got the final go-ahead on another cover, too, so that’s always a relief.

Loki’s at the vet overnight tonight–now that he’s been on insulin for a month, they figure he’s stable enough to get the definitive blood glucose curve done. While I’m glad to get it done–he definitely needs more insulin, and in fact has developed something called “diabetic neuroapathy” in the last week or two, which makes him very clumsy and prone to walking on his hocks–I feel bad for the poor guy. (The neuroapathy will go away once the diabetes is under control, but for the moment he wipes out on jumps a lot.) I’m never quite sure how much brain there is in that tiny cat noggin. I know he’s capable of some basic associations–he knows where the litter box is, he knows that carpet bombing = scolding, he hates car rides (which usually mean the vet) he’s an expert on Sounds Associated In Any Way With Food, he knows that the scrape of a certain tin can opening means that he will spend the next few minutes in a catnip-induced euphoria…but I don’t know how much complex reasoning he can do. Can he extrapolate from eight years of past experience that no matter how long he’s at the vet, I always come and get him? Or does he think that every time I leave him at the vet, he’s been abandoned? (James claims that the cat is so dumb that he forgets us completely when we go away for the weekend, and so far as Loki’s concerned, it’s a brand new Ursula that comes back. I generally attempt to thump him for saying this.)

But anyway, he’ll be back tomorrow, so even if he suffers some existential feline despair, it won’t last long. And the vet is almost painfully nice–you can’t help but like anyone who attempts to explain–speaking to the cat, which had attached himself to my hip like an unholy combination of leech and bowling ball–that he has a disease and they just wanna help him get better, so they’re gonna have a slumber party and won’t that be FUN, etc, etc, while I attempted to detach him. While I’m fairly sure I’m anthromorphizing here, I coulda sworn that the cat met my eyes briefly during the phrase “slumber party” with a look of profound disgust. Possibly he was afraid he’d be asked to do another cat’s nails.

And now, to go paint. Again.