Feed A Cold…

“So,” says you, “how’s our Mr. Snott doing?”

“Recovery has set in, and thank you for asking,” says I.

Today, he mustered up the strength to glare at me when I offered to document his misery. All I wanted was to take one tiny little photo as he sat at the kitchen table, huddled in his flannel jammies and thick terry robe.

“Don’t take my picture,” says he, and coughed a lesser version of the very worrisome cough that settled into his chest almost a week and a half ago.

Believe you me, that cough, awful as it is, sounds less alarming than it has for days, and no, he doesn’t have pneumonia although his worried doctor checked his lungs quite thoroughly late last week and made sure that we understood that this virus is indeed Nothing To Be Trifled With and that Mr. Snott had better lie low or he would indeed be fighting pneumonia.

“I wanted something so people who’ve asked about you could see you’re getting better, even though your eyes are still sunken into your head and you’ve got the color of a dead flounder,” says I, as supportive and loving as always. “Wouldn’t a picture of you on my blog make you feel better?”

“No,” growls he.

Aha! That proves he’s getting better! A week ago Snotty merely would have muttered, “Go ‘way unless you’ve got more hot milk with maple syrup,” and never moved from under the bed covers.

“If I can’t take a photo of you, then what am I going to use for a picture in my blog?” says I.

“Flowers would be nice.”

Flowers it is.