The odd utterances interrupted my last massage appointment of the day — a longtime client and, fortunately, cat person, the epitome of the chunky IT guy in sandals and geek tee shirt. Which he was not wearing, being on the table at the time.
“That sounds weird,” he said; “you want to go and check?”
I went and checked. Mr. Ferguson, still on meds for his curious bladder condition, had cornered his long suffering wife, Mrs. Nickel Catmium-Ferguson, in my business office and was addressing business, astride her hindquarters, nipping her scruff.
I have not seen this in a while. Darby and Joan as they are, their salad days seemed to be past them. Only at the moment Fergie is full of assorted meds for his, well, condition.
The vet ended by giving him something called Prazosin, which is apparently appropriate for anxious humans with urinary issues.
“One very rare side effect of prazosin is priapism,” says Wikipedia.
He seems okay now, having been competently ju-jitsued by Nickel, who as a Bengal does not fuck around.
You can get a massage at Massage Envy or the like, or you can come by my pop stand and get the full entertainment value.