I just hate when cats get temperatures because they can’t tell you where they’re ailing. I hope Jake was just warm.
With the hoomins, I always say, “Get up, use the bathroom, brush your teeth, and describe your symptoms so we can take appropriate action.” (Usually the symptom is “didn’t feel like getting up.”)
I carted Jake downstairs to the food and sandbox, and after that, he decided to go outside and contemplate avianicide, so he’s obviously not too ill. When he comes back, he can get in his dog bed in the sunbeam.
It sure is peaceful here. DP, Tom, and Elen are at the coast. Bill went to work. Sally spent the night at her friend’s house up the street. After lunch, we need to go buy a new heat lamp for Jack the Rescue Dragon, and we’ll look for clothes for Frank’s First Communion at T.J. Maxx and Ross. Walmart didn’t have any jackets.
Now he’s lying in the garden, thinking about murdering goldfinches. Definitely less energy than usual. His coat is a little gunky, too.