literature

Conjunction Junction

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The dog has to go.

Thursday I crawled into bed and didn't crawl out until Monday, when I had to or else. The baby was with her grandma, who was nearly as sick as I was, but who also had the distinctive benefits of a helpful work-from-home husband and the long-term visit of her little brother, who's fresh from prison.

Monday was doctor day.

I got out of bed when I couldn't sleep anymore, even though I was not awake in the least. My head ached in the vice-grip kinda way and it took a good two minutes of steaming to ungunk my eyes enough to see. That's not typical. Since I was up I wandered through the house, trying to coax a breath through my nose.

"It's story time! Let's sing and play games!"

The dog.

I knew the sound of it from three rooms over and reluctantly rose from the warmth of the sofa to investigate.

It giggled. "Got my nose!" and it giggled again.

The dog has always had something of a mind of its own, but this was more peculiar than usual.

"It's learning time! Ruff ruff! I love you! Let's sing and ply games! Teeheehee!"

Until I was halfway to the dog, when it said "Bye bye!" and fell silent.

Halfway was far enough to continue, so I peeked into the baby's room.

The dog was in the middle of the room. All alone. Not touching a thing.

The baby was at her grandmother's and probably not awake yet. Husband was sleeping soundly, the dogs still in the room with him. And judging by the sounds of carpet being shredded two rooms over, the cat was secured in the office.

I hated that dog. Back through the house and to the warmth of the sofa.

"Teeheehee! It's learning time! Let's sing and play games."

The dog has to go, though that thought was closely followed by the fuzz of a memory.


Boy.


Why would I think of a boy? I'd recently discussed hauntings with a minister, and I knew the boy who used to sleep in that room had been frequently plagued by night terrors. My own sweet Emmagen had startled us awake by screaming in the night, pointing at corners and muttering hysterical toddler nonsense.

The dog had to go.
Boy.


Funny, how they seemed connected. Fuzzy, you know? It wasn't the meds, because they've been gone for more than a month now. I'm detoxed. Maybe it was upper respiratory infection, the pain of the fever and aches and vice-grip head, the misery of shallow breathing and blowing out blood and not sleeping for more than an hour at a stretch, regardless the company or time of day.

The baby came home last night, and after a bed-time routine I took the dog with me, on the way out. He went through his entire repertoire of sentiments before I turned him off.

"Bye bye!" and I laid him on the kitchen table.

If he said anything else, I never heard it. If there were any night terrors, they didn't wake me.

Maybe he's making up for his previous misbehavior. Maybe after a shot of antibiotics and another of steroids I was so flooded with relief nothing else mattered.  Maybe it was because husband was there.

Maybe after a Z-pac and a round of prednisone I'll be able to make the connection.

But in the mean time, the dog has to go.
Conjunctivitis sounds like a grammar mishap.
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