Well, that was a first

Wednesday morning, in the elevator up to the 40th floor, I started to cry. And I don't cry. Certainly not in public.

But you can't blame me. I was provoked. Suzanne said, "Hi. How are you?"

I pulled it together by the time I got to my office (aka The Clown Car). Which is a good thing, because two people were in there already and I didn't want to share this display with a greater audience.

But I was so worried about Reynaldo. Tuesday night and Wednesday morning he actually seemed angry at his face. He was pacing anxiously, stopping to slap the left side of his jaw with his paw. Always up for a treat, he's been begging for and then abandoning extra kibble in his bowl.

He's 13, which is the equivalent of 68 in human years. He's in pain. It's my job, my duty, my responsibility to get to the bottom of this and get him comfort. And yet I couldn't, because there was a 9:30 meeting and I was the center of it.

My boss has made it abundantly clear that he can't/won't handle The Big Project without me. But at Rey's age, he could have anything from a broken tooth to a tumor in his mouth. If it's the latter, it's very serious. I recently discovered that this little beige demon likes to jump on the counter and lick my George Foreman grill, so maybe he burned the inside of his mouth. (Cats are notoriously not forthcoming when it comes to their health.)

After talking to Suzanne and my officemate, I was convinced that I had to get Reynaldo into the vet, and the office would just have to survive without me for a few hours. So Wednesday, I leave at 1:00.

It will probably require follow up appointments. I have tons of vacation time, so that's not the issue. It's The Big Project.

No wonder I have pimples on my chin.

In the meantime, Reynaldo can be as naughty he as wants to be. Knock any shit over you want to, Little Man. Tonight you have complete immunity!