flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
Charlie is staying on the steroids for at least two more months, so not only is he a prisoner in my home with no yard priveleges, he’s also being held down twice a day while I shove pills down his throat. Of course, that wouldn’t be necessary if he would just EAT THE PILL POCKETS LIKE A GOOD BOY. But nooo, he’s psychic and can tell that any exciting treat I offer is full of prednisone and he’s trying to say no to drugs, dammit.
He’s taken to pointedly sitting with his back to me staring into the closet, and all he needs is a little set of weights so he can sulkily get all muscly and aggro.