Roughing It

Atticus and I have been camping out. The past two nights have been spent on a bed of obnoxious springs and a lazy mattress. Tonight will be the third in a row that we've fallen asleep beside the fire, beneath a dark sky of plaster and surrounded by a forrest of creaking timber and fat, fur-shedding animals.

He is sick, and other than a couple well documented bouts with fever, it is his first real illness. I suppose that we should be thankful that we haven't had to deal with this sooner, but that doesn't make it any easier to watch a sweet boy be attacked by coughs, fever, an unforgiving stomach and an endless supply of snot. He has slept for days, probably more sleep than he has had collectively in the past few months- he's a livewire that one, usually.

Zane on the other hand, being kept at a distance and drinking the elixer of health straight from the faucet(s) on a regular basis, has managed to get by thus far with just the slightest trace of a cough. Hopefully, that will be the extent of his experience.

Our livingroom campgrounds don't need any more guests.