And a few unwanted facial hairs, but at sixty next month, that can’t be helped.
This is the showiest damage, though the most serious and painful part involved the quartet of bite punctures on the opposite side of my jaw. They are in a condition consistent with a resolving abscess (the term used by the hand surgeon who treated my first cat bite over twenty years ago). They may or may not drain but I’m packing them, when I have time, with a revolting soup of warm Irish breakfast tea heavily spiked with Epsom Salt.
–Due to the antibiotics, which have otherwise proved innocuous so far, I can now fart a descending tonic triad, and possibly the Marseillaise. The change in tone quality and melodic precision is significant.
–He actually got me inside my left nostril, something I didn’t realize until I washed my face with oil and salt.
A person of a spiritual bent was briefly in my house last night, and offered to channel Torvald’s point of view. “I’m sorry I hurt my Mom,” she reported. “It was really big and I was scared but I coulda taken him! I coulda taken him!”
Sounds about right.
That’s Fergie’s ear on the left, by the way — the paragon of cats, giving me aid and comfort. And trying to type on my keyboIOURD.
I think I’ll go back to my bowl of tea now, and make up a story about Schlager fencing in my student days.