FBI on his tail; use a gun, go to jail...but Skippy can't read...

My poor Squooshable is worn out, and I think he is achy from battling the techs; he’s been extremely sedate since we came home, and mostly slept. I played with him a little and he played back, but not really enthusiastically. I think his legs are sore from all the kicking and struggling (I’m not kidding when I say he put up one hell of a fight—they were only able to do three of his four paws before deciding they were traumatising him, where I had told them to quit if that were to happen), though he is walking normally and everything—I think he’s only worn out and maybe achy. He is drinking, eating, and purring though. I have promised him that we won’t clip claws anymore. I think he remembers Pollyanna Peticide hurting him, and that’s what had him so freaked; she really over-trimmed and had to use a styptic pencil to stop the bleeding, damn her, and I’m sure it hurt, or at least felt really icky.

In Other News, I am more or less done. Yay. But that sucks in a way, because in finishing, I have reneged on my Solemn Vow to not do someone else’s work for them, and here I’ve gone and done it. One of my group members—let’s call him Skip; I have meant to get around to naming RCG, so we’re now calling him Skip; pencil it in on your programs—is, I believe, illiterate.

Okay, okay; I am being facetious. Somewhat. But the boy doesn’t read. Anything. Ever. I wouldn’t even state for certain that he reads, say, stop signs; he might just be recognising the shape and colour. And the longer something is, the less likely he is to have read it; the p of having been read as x approaches two sentences is zero, mmmkay? :-D So in completing what I have, I have done all of his reading and part of his writing for him. Grr. Do I care anymore? No.

Sigh. More later.

o/~ Summer is over, and he's gone to seed...you know that Skippy can't read...



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