This morning it was cold enough that the pups curled up together. Usually Watson doesn't care for it. Marceline, the smaller of the two, rested her head on his rump. I turned up the heat to 72. It's hard for me to gauge how uncomfortable the cold makes them. Well, they were up on the bed, so they should be okay. Their own dog bed is a kid-sized mattress. But everybody loves a queen.

I haven't weighed myself since my surgery. During my pre-op check-in, my weight was 144, but that was fully clothed and with shoes on. I figured I would reduce during my recovery since it hurt so much to eat; what I was not expecting was my lack of appetite in the weeks that followed. It hasn't been a full month yet, and it's not something that worries me. It's kind of funny that my legendary appetite may have been beaten by a common medical procedure.

Now is the winter of our discontent. No, wrong quote.

"There is no steady unretracing progress in this life; we do not advance through fixed gradations, and at the last one pause:–through infancy's unconscious spell, boyhood's thoughtless faith, adolescence' doubt (the common doom), then scepticism, then disbelief, resting at last in manhood's pondering repose of If. But once gone through, we trace the round again; and are infants, boys, and men, and Ifs eternally." -Moby Dick.

Much better. Melville, you've prepared me for everything. The pondering repose of If. Should be carved into the mast, like the Lorax and his stump proclaiming "Unless". If. If. If.

The raven cawing "Nevermore," Macbeth's porter crying "Knock, knock, knock!"

And the bell tolls for me to return to my toil. Buzz buzz buzz.