We are sick puppies. The Ranger with the flu, me with a cold. Our romance has come to this:
"Hon, I feel really bad." The Ranger is lying on the sofa squeezing Oscar, our stuffed sea otter, and watching golf. That's how I know he must be sick. ESPN golf.
"I know you're sick, sweetie. Try and sleep."
"Do I look pale? I feel pale."
"Yes, honey, you're pale. Drink some water. Try and sleep."
"I don't think I can eat anything."
"Just drink some water then. Stay hydrated."
"Well, maybe a banana. Can you get me a banana?"
"Sure, I'll get you a banana. Anything else?"
"Can you feel my forehead? I bet I have a fever."
"Hon, I already felt your forehead. Twice. You don't have a fever."
"But I feel so pale. Except for the fever."
"You don't have a fever. You're just warm from all the blankets."
"Can you slice the banana and put it on toast. Maybe some butter, but not too much."
"Just feel my forehead. I swear I have a fever."
And that's when I smothered him with a pillow.