not making sense

Rich just emerged from our tundra of a bedroom with a mop.  To clean?  Surely not.  That would make sense.  To close a window.   Respecting the laws of physics and responding to gravity's pull, it descends without human intervention, noticed primarily on nights that dip into single digits.  I'm too short to close it and Rich can't stretch that far, so the mop is his long arm.

And a few nights ago, when Rich was in a funk about his swollen feet (no big deal, said yesterday's doctor), Thunder the Most Mellow Cat begins dashing from doors to windows, howling and bent for hell.  Makes no sense, we thought; where's the enemy?

Tomorrow we go to New York for pre-radiation procedures which, I'm sure when read about someday in the future, will make no sense.  Nor do they now, but I can't condemn them because I see no choice.  Let's poison Rich some more, that's what's next.  So he can be well.  Or better, at least.  

Off we go.

Candace