Mixed Bag

I’m free of my lodger, the Foley catheter that’s lived in my urethra and bladder the last thirteen days. Its removal was a relief. Sadly, though, I also had to say good-bye to Sloshy.

Sloshy was the nickname bestowed upon my leg urine collection bag. I wore that bag sixteen hours a day while the Foley was in me. During that time, Sloshy and I grew very attached. I found him to be a warm but shy personality. He rarely intruded on me except to slosh sometimes. He never said anything bad about anyone or anything, and never leaked, dribbled, or squirted. I don’t know if you can give a urine collection bag any greater praise than that.

I felt Sloshy’s sloshing was his way of chuckling. He had a great sense of humor and was often amused by how I drained him or swapped him with the night bag. I think it says a lot about him that the cats were interested in him, attempting to smell him and rub against him. Sloshy was for getting closer to them, but I kept them away. Of a voracious curiosity, he wanted to see more of the world than just the inside of my garments. I tried accommodating his dream by discreetly raising my pant leg when I was out in public so that he may have a look around.

He knew his time had come. Before we separated today, I spent a little private time with him, and then introduced him to the staff that were there to take him away. All agreed that he was the finest urine collection bag that they’d ever met, and also the first to have a name.

My most fervent hope for anyone else that ever has a bag on their leg is that it’s as fine a bag as Sloshy. A person could do worse.


Editing Note: I really did name my bag Sloshy and told the medical staff about it. They went along with it, making an entry in my records that my bag was named Sloshy. And, they did agree, they’d never heard a bag be given a name before. Well, there always needs to be first, right? I’m just sorry that I never took a selfie with Sloshy to share.


Floofmagem (floofinition) – a showy housepet, often with very fluffy, shiny fur, and not infrequently further decorated by bows or ribbons.

In use: “A true floofmagem, the long-haired amber cat with a black face and jade eyes sported flowing, long fur so evenly distributed that it could have been styled. A sparking collar that matched her eyes peeked out from the fur. What really sold her floofmagem image was her languid pose. Eyes partially closed, she looked like a graceful ruler at rest.”

Monday’s Theme Music

Good mornin’, from my perspective. Good day, good night good afternoon, whatever, from yours.

Monday here. Not talkin’, no not Monday talkin’. I mean that today is Monday. Monday doesn’t speak. Monday is sullen, sighing a lot amidst deep, multiple frowns, but not talkin’. Everyone blames Sunday for that because people on Sunday are often cursing Monday. “Oh, no, tomorrow’s Monday already.” Already, as if it’s a surprise, as if this doesn’t happen every week.

Eventually, those negative comments have added, and Monday’s down. Calendar bullying. It’s not pretty. Is there a bullying that is pretty? Of course, not.

You’d think, after this, that this song will be about Monday. It’s not. I was singing to a cat this morning. This revelation probably surprised you. You’re probably sayin’, “He sings to his cats. I’ve never heard of anyone singing to their cat.” I know. Unusual, right?

I was singing Taylor Swift’s song, “I Knew You Were Trouble” (2012) to ginger Papi. He was dancing and hopping all about, very full of himself, going up to the other bigger and older cats in a challenging manner.

Well, he went up to Boo, anyway. Challenges were discussed. I said some words ’bout the squirt gun. Papi backed away.

Papi considered Tucker but Tucker is all action, no words, so Papi didn’t get too close and only said one thing to Tucker. Tucker didn’t answer. Like I said…

Here’s the music. Happy friggin’ Monday. (Sorry, Monday.) I can do without the story-telling at the video’s beginning. Just wanted the music. It doesn’t start until about two minutes.

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