I came home to a murder scene. Right on the edge of one anyways. There were piles of puke and shit or shitty puke all throughout the apartment, in front of the door, in the kitchen, on the bed. It smelled horrible.
Musette should have called me by now. She should have called me before I left work. I try calling her, but it goes right to voicemail. It’s the day before Thanksgiving. It’s understandable that she would have to work late.
I tell myself not to panic. I check Twitter to make sure the building that she works at wasn’t blown up. There are no stories.
The things that I am thankful for are collapsing on Thanksgiving. The vet near our apartment is not open and will not be open again until the day after the day after. The two nearest emergency hospitals are both over a half hour’s walk away, but they are open twenty-four hours. I call them both. The nearest one has a consultation fee of over a hundred dollars. The one that’s further away costs just under.
I tell myself that I am not going to cry. I will not be so shocked as I was last time. I know what to expect. I don’t know what we’re going to do though.