The phone just rang again. This time the hospital. With bad news.
They want us to take Peep home because they can’t keep tapping her chest for fluid. They don’t know why she keeps filling up with it. We can consult a cardiologist, they say.
This is killing us.
The veterinary hospital phoned us last night at 10:30–suddenly sick to the stomach. Had to answer it, though.
They’d done some tests, had Peep under observation for five hours, drained fluid from her chest, and so far hadn’t found anything very alarming. After they got the fluid out, the doctor said, she had a much easier time breathing. They’ll do more tests today, and advised us not to sit there waiting for the phone to ring. “If we don’t call,” she said, “no news is good news.” But they will report later in the afternoon. There might be some heart disease that can be controlled with medication.
It wasn’t exactly a rosy report last night, but it was a lot less horrible than we feared. It allowed us to go to bed with some hope.
Yes, I know there are those who would say, “Why so much fuss over a cat?” Well, sunshine, live long enough for most of your loved ones to die or move hundreds of miles away, and you’ll get some idea of what our pets mean to us. Peep loves us, and that ministers to our souls.
Just a little something God thought of when He was creating life on earth… which we wouldn’t have thought of at all.
Please continue to pray for us.
(And the &^%$& phone just rang–with a nuisance robot call! Grrr!)
This evening we had to have Peep admitted to the emergency veterinary hospital–hadn’t eaten all day, slept all day, very labored breathing. The prognosis is very bad.
So now we really need your prayers. We need Peep’s love. This is very hard for me to write about. This year is crushing us; and it’s only Feb. 28.
I’ll try to be here again tomorrow, but can’t promise anything.
Please, Lord Jesus, help us.
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I’ve got to get back to work on my book, but first I want to tell you that an employee at a Michigan nursing home has pleaded guilty to forging the signatures of mentally disabled patients on absentee ballots (https://www.candgnews.com/news/center-line-nursing-home-employee-sentenced-for-election-fraud-122786).
Honk if you think you can guess which presidential candidate these defenseless patients supposedly voted for.
Rob a 7-11, and they’ll get you. Rob Fort Knox, and the, ahem, authorities will do everything in their power to pretend it never happened. The magnitude of the crime is its best protection.
Noozies and politicians keep telling us the election was on the level, 81 million phantoms came out to vote for Slojo, it’s Time To Move On and pretend it never happened. And we are told that now, now, most of the American people believe the election wasn’t stolen, after all.
That’s what we call a whopper.
I got a good scare yesterday when I examined my hand-written manuscript of The Witch Box. Seeking to refresh my memory of the last few chapters of the book–up to some 50 chapters, in total–I found something I never expected to find.
There, floating around in the wake of everything else, was a Chapter 28. What? What was it doing there? Where did it belong? How did I ever wind up sticking it… there?
After a frantic search for answers, I found its duplicate snugly fitted between Chapters 27 and 29 in the typed manuscript. So now I had two Chapter 28s! Happily, they proved to be identical.
Here’s what happened.
Back in September, I had the book’s climax in my head but didn’t know how to get there. So I decided to do something I’d never done before: to jump ahead and write all the chapters leading up to the climax, all the way to the end of the book. I knew this would leave a hole that I’d have to fill later. But this part of the project took a long time; and when at last I was finished, I found the hole in the plot to be much smaller than I’d expected. That job belonged to Chapter 28. I’d thought I would have to write several chapters, but it turned out I only needed one to fill the hole.
Does that sound confusing? Well, it confused me–but good.
See, I got sick around New Year’s and I must have been sicker than I thought: because by the time I was well enough to resume writing, I had totally forgotten what I’d done! Now it makes me shudder, but yesterday it drove me crazy. I had already solved the problem, but forgotten that I’d done so. I’d already solved the problem–just couldn’t remember what I’d done.
I am greatly relieved!
So now I can go ahead and finish typing the book, praise the Lord. I still think it has a good chance to be my best book yet.
How heartening is this! We have hosts and hosts of brothers and sisters in Christ, all over the world–everywhere. In this video, India.
Requested by Susan, a Charles Wesley hymn sung by an Indian choir, 200 voices strong–And Can It Be That I Should Gain?
It’s so hard to teach Critical Race Theory to an empty classroom!
When people stubbornly refuse to believe self-evident truths–as plain as the nose on your face–trying to convince them can be frustrating. It could drive you mad.
For years without end, critics of public education ran into the brick wall of sheer disbelief. I think it was purposeful. People didn’t want to believe. Because then they would’ve had to do something about it… and no one knew what.
But then along came King COVID and shut down the schools, and kids had to be “taught” remotely, via computer. For the first time ever, parents actually saw and heard what their kids were being taught–down with America, white people are evil, communism is good, get sexually involved as soon as you possibly can, etc., etc.
So now they had to believe; and so far the result is four times as many homeschooling families this year as there have ever been in any year.
To save our republic, we have to empty out the public schools. Unless we do that, nothing else we do will make any difference.
Requested by our friend SlimJim, The Marriage Supper of the Lamb, sung by the Hoppers.
Anyone can make a hymn request, so don’t be bashful! I try to post all the hymns requested by readers.
Who says cats and dogs are mortal enemies? But the professor eyed me knowingly and said, “Ah! But domestication does strange things to an animal, does it not?”
The shadows of the ancient castle seemed to wrap themselves around him… and without another word, I plotzed.
(Trying to remember where he left his clothes…)
Here’s a pleasant little game you can play solitaire while standing outside the doctor’s waiting room until The View goes off the air. Or you can play it with your friends, or at a family gathering. You won’t even need a scratch pad: you can keep score with your fingers.
All you have to do is change one letter, just one, of a famous person’s name to create a whole new character. A few examples:
*Duke Snider is transformed from a Hall of Fame baseball player to “Dupe Snider,” perpetual patsy and fall guy. (Gee, that sounds like one of Byron’s TV shows.)
*Movie and TV star Donna Reed becomes “Donna Weed,” something you keep pulling out of your garden.
*Harry Belafonte not only gets his sex changed, but turns into an annoying scold as “Harpy Belafonte.”
*Flip Wilson transforms from a beloved comedian (“The devil made me do it!”) into a pest control technician, complete with spray can–“Flit Wilson.”
*Actress Demi Moore becomes long-distance trucker “Semi Moore.”
Jimmy Carter becomes–well, never mind, I’d better not go there.
Hey, this could be addictive! I’d better stop before I miss my afternoon movie.
Any suggestions for more?
