Dead Man Walking.

We have a man down.

The Mister has had the legs cut right out from under him by a sinus infection. I thought yesterday that he just had the mother of all colds, but when he (finally) took his temperature after dinner last night, it was around 102°, and he was wafting off enough heat to be a factor in global warming all by himself.

We got him off to the doctor's after-hours clinic, where he was diagnosed, and then off to the late-night pharmacy, where we got lots and lots of drugs.

Because he has a rotten cough, I decided to sleep down in the spare room in the basement, so that he could bark like a seal all night long and not worry about keeping me up. Turns out the best part of sleeping in the basement is that Toby didn't know I was down there, and I was free of the 12 pound, furry, orange alarm clock that cannot tell time. You should have seen the look on his face when I came up in the morning! If he could have talked, he would have said "hey! I didn't know you were here! This is great! I will get tuna after all!!"

As we were driving home last night, his medication clutched in his steely grip, as if he would never let it go, I mentioned that he probably shouldn't go to work tomorrow, and he said "well, I'll think about it." I pointed out that he probably wouldn't be doing his clients any favours by showing up, because, exactly what quality of haircuts did he think he'd be pulling off in this state? He conceded that he might not go. As it turns out, he hasn't gone, which is about the second time he's called in sick in about 5 years. (The last time was for a kidney stone.)

So I've stocked up on chicken soup, crackers, ginger ale and pudding. I don't know if he wants any of that, but it will keep me happy.