I recently came across this story about a cat dialing 911 to save his owner, who had fallen on the floor, unable to reach the phone. This was right after the cat ordered a pizza from Dominos (extra sausage, extra cheese) and dropped Bewitched in his Netflix queue. While they waited for paramedics to arrive the cat read his owner a few stock updates on smartmoney.com.
Now. I’m all for anthropomorphizing our pets. Heck, if not for her coprophagia, fondness for dried bull tootyacker, squirrel-inspired freakouts, and oh, WOLF DESCENDENT DNA, Daisy would be almost human. But for every pet that dials 911 when their human falls on the floor you probably get 100 more that would eat their human's face. I suspect my own dog falls in the latter camp, which is why I wear moisturizer she doesn't like the taste of.
In other news, I stayed home from work today because I have the Joe Pesci of colds. I'm subsisting on Thai soup, white tea, and garlic. My eyeballs feel like hot little marbles and I smell like a turkey being basted. Yes, I can still smell, because I'm at that horrible part in getting a cold right before your nose fills with cement. You know, the fun part where it feels like you actually have a hemorrhoid deep in your nasal passages and every time you breathe is like inhaling and exhaling a forest fire.
And with that, I'm off to down some Nyquil and finish The Position by Meg Wolitzer. It's always good to read books with characters that make your own family sound like The Brady Bunch.