At four o'clock this morning I woke up and found Ian sitting up in bed, arms folded as he leaned against the headboard, and he was practically gnawing on his bottom lip. I couldn't tell if he was worried or angry and I almost rolled over and ignored him in case he'd found something to be ticked off about in the middle of the night. If I'd done something, we could deal with it in the morning. But then he sighed, so I snuggled in close and asked him what the problem was.
"I think I have to amputate my toe."
All right, from my perspective he was staring at his crotch and not his feet, but I could be wrong. So I asked why.
"It's nine inches long."
Um, yeah sweetheart, if you're really looking where it looks like you're looking, that's wishful thinking.
"I'm never going to find shoes that fit."
I suggested sandals; he balked because "then it would be out there flapping around. And someone would step on it."
I don't know why, but I got up out of bed and went into the bathroom for nail clippers and came back out, offering to take care of the offending toe for him. Just a snip here and there, and it would be fine, I promised. So he agreed; clipping it off would be all right.
I got to the foot of the bed, and lo and behold, hiding behind his mammoth feet was a tiny black cat. Tail sticking straight up. I told Ian to close his eyes so that it wouldn't hurt, tweaked his toes with my fingers a little, picked Weezer up, and then crawled back into bed. When I told him everything was fine now, he opened his eyes and looked at his feet, and marveled at there not being any blood.
I handed Weezer to him and told him she was worried about him. And people, don't ever believe his "I don't like cats" crap, because he kissed her on the top of her little head before settling back onto the bed and putting her on the pillow next to his head.
He sighed happily and mumbled "I love you," but honestly, I don't know if he was saying it to me or the cat.