Or “seeping,” as college roommate Matt Pappathan used to insist John was singing.
This morning at 4:05 (I remember the announced time vividly), Philippa knocked on the bedroom door to advise me that Beatrice was yapping downstairs, making it hard for her (Pippa) to sleep. (It probably was hard for Bea to sleep, too, but that wasn’t the point.)
I went downstairs to investigate, let Bea out of her kennel to wander around the kitchen; she’d been vomiting last night, Si had told me when he arrived in from opening night of his role as Malvolio in Twelfth Night. I figured she might be uncomfortably hungry or thirsty, so I put out a small portion of chow and some fresh water. She paced around the kitchen for a few minutes, ate and drank, and started pacing again, when she toddled over to a corner and dispensed a small lake’s worth of urine. (That’s odd, since she’s usually reliable enough to ask to be let outside.) So I shooed her outside, cleaned up with Nature’s Miracle, tried to induce her to come inside, put on my parka and shoes to try to catch her in the dark, at night, in the sub-freezing weather, with Bea feeling perky as can be after restoring her digestive equilibrium, finally chased her to the steps, let her in, and closed her up for the rest of the night — at which point I was pretty wide awake, finally falling asleep again about an hour and a half later. So if I seem a little groggy now (or at tonight’s performance of Twelfth Night), please excuse-z-z-z-z-z. . . . .