Taking It In Your Stride

I have this horrible affliction.

You know when something happens to someone, they get hurt, and there’s that one person who laughs? Really loudly? And in stark contrast to the situation at hand? In fact, the more traumatic the experience, the louder and more hysterical that laugh is?

You know that person?

That person is me.

I can’t help it.

To be fair. I don’t always “just” laugh, straight out. Usually, particularly if it appears bad, I make sure the unfortunate person is ok. That’s when the hysterical laughter happens. The louder I laugh is an indication of just how distressed and concerned I was, and how relieved I am that the victim is ok.

So, there I was, doubled over, lying on the footpath, unable to breathe from laughing so hard, just moments after Grumpy Pants had walked fair into a pole. HARD! I mean, the pole was still ringing even after I’d checked he wasn’t concussed and I tried to suppress a snigger that was determined not to be suppressed.

“It’s not funny!” he says, holding his head and muttering profanities under his breath.

“*snort*” I reply. “No, *snort*, no, no, really *snort* no, it’s not funny. I’m sorry. …. *snort*”

I’m sure he smiled. He just wasn’t going to let me in on it.

We make it home, injury and incident free (from then on) and one of our cats walks past. The nice one. Cupcake.

(Yes, our cats are all named after foods.)

A while back, she was in a fight and got a scratch on her nose. It was seen to. But it didn’t get better. It kept opening up and just got worse and worse. Grumpy decides it’s time to take her to the vet.

I’m still trying to push this morning’s incident from my mind, so I can stop giggling and focus when he rings.

Cupcake has developed cancer in her face. She’s not well. She needs to be put down.

That knock’s the chuckle right out of me. And I also feel a little silly.

You see, after I had kids, I developed another affliction. This one had me turn totally against animals. I was never a fan of them anyway, but would stop and pat a dog in the street, if Grumpy Pants did (he loves dogs), so as not to offend the owner. Now … I can’t touch them. In fact, looking at some literally makes me want to vomit. Ditto the cats … I can’t touch them unless it is absolutely necessary. I have no idea what it is, but I just. Can’t. Do. It.

Don’t bother applying logic. There is none.

It’s not that I don’t like the cats. I do. I just can’t touch them. Or their food. Or even feed them. That’s why we have kids.

Thus, I’ve had little to do with them, other than watch them as they play in the backyard and with the kids. I do like them, really. Just at a distance.

I also worried about the kids and what they’d say. We walk up to school to get them, pass childcare and collect Chippie and wander home.

Grumpy breaks the news.

“Where’s her brain?” Godzilla asks.

“Ummm, we left it at the vet,”

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