Lenox Avenue just let me know they want to buy my short story, "One-Eyed Jack and the Suicide King."
This is one of the three stories that sort of shook themselves off, stared hard at each other, and decided that they were actually one novel, which is to say, One-Eyed Jack.
Then the bad news: Ollie the blue-eyed vulture went to the vet this morning about his sudden catastrophic weight loss. It looks like hyperthyroid, organ failure, or both. The good news is that he's not in any pain, and his bloodwork will be back tomorrow morning, and he's currently curled up under the book case in the office so he can be close to me while still letting me know he's pissed off about the blood draw, and he drank a fair amount of the water I brought him. The bad news is he still won't touch the food and the prognosis is not good, and Ollie is somewhere between eleven and sixteen years of age (he was a mature cat, 6-10, when my husband rescued him), so it's a matter of time in any case.
I'll know more tomorrow.
Poor Ollie. He's a darling cat--a Panda Siamese, which means he's essentially a Siamese tuxedo. kit_kindred calls him the cosmetically challenged cat. He drools when he's happy, and he's crosseyed, and he steals my club soda, and his left ear is shredded because the idiot leads with right and doesn't know how to duck. He prefers to sleep on your face, given options. He's a big rag doll; you can hold him any which way and he loves it.
The mastiff had to go around the house and count all the kitties when I came home from the vet with him. "And one and two and three and two--no, oops, counted that one already--and four and one and...drat."
I do appreciate good wishes, but don't don't feel bad if you don't know what to say. But if I get a little quiet next week or so, I'm probably busy with that, is all.