This may mark a new high or low, not sure which, in a campaign season marked by excess. But I write from the ER, taking antibiotics via IV. The alleged culprit is our cat Riley, prominently featured in The Boston Globe as my campaign associate. Riley is a two-year old, very sweet cat who loves to snuggle and likes a robust scratch behind the ears and below the chin.
Three days back, after an intense half-hour discussion of foreign policy and Trump’s latest inanities, Riley decided he needed a good rubbing. So he pushed his papers aside, rose from the table, leapt to the floor, and promptly flipped on his back. This is his standard signal for me to provide a head and neck message, listen for the purr, and then provide a snack (out of site of my wife).
On this occasion, Riley apparently wasn’t happy with my foreign policy positions and his little teeth came to rest on, well, sink into my lower arm, which produced a rather nasty infection.
Clearly, I’ll need to give Riley’s policy views more careful attention. The good news is I’m on the mend, Riley is still the campaign’s top cat, and the press has a good story to cover.