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So, I've just returned home after six days house-sitting for my mother while she's abroad, ensuring the lights are switched on and off in a convincingly burglar-deterring fashion, catching up with my sister and her boyfriend and most importantly, feeding and keeping track of her 17-year-old, fat, crabby but essentially decent and lovable ginger tom, Jonesy. Early this morning the neighbours might well have heard repeated perplexed cursing as I tried to make sense of the timer controls on the automated feeder Mum uses when she's away for a day or so, which has to stand in for a human provider-of-lamb-and-turkey-delight until her friend comes by to check in on Tuesday evening.
Now, it's possible that I got things exactly right and that Jones will be fed properly at twelve-hour intervals over the next forty-eight hours. Since I'm very stupid, it's more likely that he will get either one massive meal followed by nothing at all for two days, or two days of starvation followed by a banquet he'll be too weak to enjoy. I simply can't know.
To assuage my minor misery, please join me in this thread if you are now or have ever been in a situation where the thought: "Shit! I sure hope I remembered to X" plagued your consciousness. |
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