Boscoe ate his dinner last night, every bite. And he slept soundly, no need to get up and go out. His water-guzzling seems to be on the decrease. This morning he couldn't quite manage his full breakfast, but he did well enough to win himself two gigantic antibiotic pills and a hypo of insulin, and it doesn't get any better than that.
I think he is on the mend. This makes me happy for reasons beyond just the stress of not sleeping and of trying to cajole him to eat; it makes me happy because I am hoping that it means that the urinary tract infection is just that--a urinary tract infection--and not something more. The very kind vet had hinted very kindly that if that round of antibiotics didn't do the trick, they would have to look for "underlying causes," which would be, of course, kidney disease, which would be, of course, very bad.
I think it is not yet Boscoe's time, and I think he is getting better, and so I am happy.
I am also happy because I finally finished writing a travel story that I reported last September. It has been hanging over my head all winter because it was a very quiet, gentle trip and not much happened, and I have been fretting over how to write it. My editor hasn't read it yet, so who knows--it might require massive rewrites--but for now I have a good first draft and that is a load off my mind.
What else? We had a fun dinner last night with some friends. This morning we are doing Good Deeds, taking part in some kind of college journalism workshop, critiquing the work of students. Tomorrow I am doing a signing and reading at the Bookcase in Wayzata, and I have high hopes that this won't be the time when nobody shows up.
Oh, and this morning? Twenty one degrees above zero, headed to thirty-two. Happiness, indeed.