Frank, the Awfully-Smug Cat

I got sick last night. I laid in bed and was almost to sleep when a huge wave of nausea hit me. I was immediately and fully awake. My beloved dog Honey was curled up in a ball by my left (the escape) side. I laid there debating whether this was just a queasy feeling or whether something would actually come of it. A few moments later and I decided it was no false alarm. I tried to carefully crawl over the dog to get out of bed (she didn't even look up), rushed to the bathroom and knelt before the john. When round 1 was over a few minutes later I heard something behind me. I thought it might have been my loving and caring dog, coming to see whatever was wrong with Mommy. Nope. It was Frank, my orange tabbycat. And he had this look on his furry little face. I can't read my cat's mind most of the time but that look laid his thoughts perfectly bare: "And you always shoo ME off when I have my head in the toilet bowl. I TOLD you that was the very best water in the house. See?"

My response to the cat was "You WOULD think this is funny."

I went back to bed, crawing back over my beloved, ever-concerned-about-my-well-being dog who had not moved one centimeter but was snoring now. And I drifted off, only to repeat a few hours later.

This morning my body was racked with aches. The nausea is still coming and going. The dog is still curled up on the bed, sleeping away. And Frank, when he chooses to grace me with his presence, is looking at me with this knowing smile and the assumption that I will never again pull him off the commode. (He's wrong.)