Only two more days in the Year of the Ox. Heart felt breath of relief. I hear that one is supposed to wear a different animal during one's year to aim bad luck away. Today I am wearing a dragon, grundoon's year. And I wore a dragon two days ago, a bike shirt with dragons all over it, when I had a very difficult conversation. It went well, sort of. No one yelled and no one was mean. But it is broken and I do not know if it will heal. It is not my decision.

Mass Mu is being difficult. I suppose that is the nature of disability insurance, that they do not want to pay me so they will not answer questions about what "own occupation" means. I don't know if it means I can't do ANY doctoring without losing the benefits. Which would be a bit sad, but whatever. I am doing lots of writing and studying PANS and all the long covid information. It does look like antibodies are the cause of long covid, chronic fatigue syndrome, fibromyalgia and probably many mental health disorders. Maybe all. I don't know yet.

I have accidentally found an editor. It's my doctor. She was the editor of some medical journal. She gave me good feedback on yesterday's covid piece. She was the one who told me about the fibromyalgia antibody. Then she complimented me on tying the different threads together. I am thrilled and amazed to accidentally have found an editor. I was wishing for one but it is entirely unexpected, from my perspective.

I am going to need a music outlet. I hid my guitar because of the dragon interaction. I hid it before that. He laughed about that. I said the guitar is sulking and he is not allowed to play it, it wants ME to play it. He says, "Ok, you win, you ARE weirder than me." He must not act stuff out with finger puppets and doll houses. The mom doll and the two children got in the car and left the house before our talk. They really needed to. The dad was being horrid and claiming that he is nice and perfect. My love interest also said he's low maintenance. I patted his arm and say, "In your dreams, dear." Then I laughed and gave an example: "After all, I had to not yell. I haven't yelled once." He looked a bit sour and agreed that I have not yelled once. Since last March. Ok, I yelled alone in my car last week, but that doesn't count.

Anyhow, the church doesn't want me back and I don't think he does either. My heart is broken, but well, that's my NORMAL after all. That is what I am used to and where I have been for most of 60 years.

I read my year of the Tiger horrorscope and sigh. It says that oxen will have love increase and perhaps even marry. Good luck. Not sure I would ever want that, now. Also that finances will improve tremendously. I hope that bit is true.

My parents were both born in the Year of the Tiger. My daughter is an Ox like me. My sister is a Dragon. The Chinese Restaurant placemats say "Dragons lead complicated lives". Oxen are reminded that even though they LOVE to work, not everyone else does, and we are supposed to be patient with others. I was born a metal Ox. Along with the 12 animals, there are also five elements that rotate: so it is a 60 year cycle. My daughter is a more prosperous and easier ox year.

My son is a Monkey. Quick and impatient with it. Violin was amazing for him, because when he got competative with a girl in his class who started playing two years before him, he practiced like a demon. And found that practice did it's work.

The gentleman friend is a Goat. Or Sheep. And I read today that the animals opposite one on the wheel are the MOST difficult to get along with. So by that measure, we have done very well.

My longhaired grey beast, one CAT-5, has come down with a severe lack of appetite, weight loss, and hepatic lipidosis, or fatty liver. His body fat converted so fast the liver became overwhelmed, so his liver is having issues clearing out the resultant bits. A few hours at the vet yesterday got him some fluids, some anti-nausea meds, and a very mild case of the sulks. Also a poor prognosis: he is not in great shape. While I'm characterizing this to myself as 50/50, the truth is that if his food consumption doesn't come up, he's likely fucked.

With him back home, I'm under instructions to feed him as many stinky things as he'll take. Cans of tuna. Flakes of bonito. Liver treats. Essentially, anything nontoxic to cats that he'll take in. Perhaps unsurprisingly, even with the anti-nausea meds in him, he's not gulping anything down but the bonito flakes, which aren't exactly a solid diet. This morning it's been a scant few tablespoons of tuna and gravy. On the bright side, he's drinking water on a regular basis again. Small wins.

Five is a former feral: one of a pair of two long-haired grey kittens abandoned too young by their mother and thus rescued by oakling and partner. He's spent most of his life avoiding human contact. He bonded with my older CAT-6, who passed back in 2019, and slowly became accustomed to hanging out with me. Over time he's decided to accept, then demand, pets. He'll never be on good terms with a brush (hair or toothbrush) or being picked up, but he's still a sweetheart compared to where he used to be.

Prior to Six passing, I used to comment to friends that the correct cat got the diabetes: Six was amiable to being shot up, somewhat accepting of blood tests, and overall, not a huge challenge to care for. Today I'm still happy about that: while I need to give him 0.3 of Buprenorphine twice daily, it's simply shot into the mouth and absorbed through the mucous membranes, meaning he needs neither needle or to swallow the damn stuff, just to have it in his mouth.

Still, it's a weight. This strange, twitchy, magnificent beast of grey fur and frequent hiding has come to trust me in the last year, and now he may well be on the way out of my life. It's the the way of things: cattle die, kinsmen die. But I think in his way, if only through finding a way to live happily, Five has done well.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.