Six Week Trial

Some days are a struggle, plain and simple. Getting out of bed, feeding the cat. Days like this Amy's thankful she doesn't have a dog. The thought of having to get dressed for this minus stupid weather so she can stand around waiting to pick up dog crap with a plastic swathed mitten repulses her. Honestly, the main deterrent to Amy's adopting a dog is the pooping and scooping. At least with a cat she can use a long handled scoop. Still, she's thought long and hard about getting that dvd and kit that teaches your cat to use the toilet like a human being. Much more civilized. Rupert could do it too, she thinks. He's smart. Wily, at least, with the way he jimmies open the cat food cupboard at 4 am. That cat has some serious burglar ing skills. Ha. Cat burglar. Amy hiccups an aborted laugh into her pillow. Seven forty five. Too late to hit the snooze bar. Six weeks is a long time to wait and see if these meds will be different. Six long, bleak, grey mid-winter weeks. This time, things will be better, that's the plan. The hope, at least. She's counting on it. Hell, so is Rupert.

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