UPDATE: all went well for young Kirby. He’ll spend the night at the vet’s and come home tomorrow.

+++

Returned to the Main FictionThing and the status quo of its rhythmic needs yet to be discovered. Noodled around with pen and paper but nothing stood out for me. Alas.

Thinking: While I recognize patience's role as an essential virtue in this line of toil, I've begun to wonder: do I have more or less patience now than I did ten years ago? Or, rather, has the flavor of patience – to borrow Covid parlance – mutated with the years to another variant of interest/concern? Depends on the day I ask myself.

Kirby has, after becoming enraged at a corner mop bucket, been delivered for his 29-hour adventure to "get his tonsils out," in veterinary euphemism/parlance – or, as The Far Side would say, “going to the vet to get tutored.” The house is quiet. Too quiet.

The day awaits, the only certainity being that mine will probably be better than Kirby’s.