I think there's something wrong with me. Really, really wrong, and if it gets worse, I'm going to have to go to the stabby place and you just know the bald guy is going to stick things where things don't belong.

Last night the Younger Human was not home, so I got to stretch out on his bed. He has the best bed in the house; it's not too soft and not too hard, and the warm air blowing thingy hits it just right. The thing is, I heard the Woman go into the kitchen when it was time for her to shoot up take her meds, which also means it's crunchy treat time.

She doesn't call us to remind us when its crunchy treat time. She figures if we don't come on our own, it's our tough luck. So we listen for the sound of the refrigerator door, because she keeps her drugs medication in there. I heard her, I knew what time it was, and I knew she was going to dole out crunchy treats.

This is where it gets weird.

I didn't get up. I didn't go downstairs to get my crunchy treats. We all know how much I love my crunchy treats, but I didn't want to risk giving up the warmest spot on the best bed in the house.

I willingly gave up crunchy treats.

That means I'm sick, right? I only hope it's not going to become a chronic thing. If it did, I would waste away into nothing but skin and bones, and I'm too damned pretty to let that happen.

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