Lion and Magic Boy

I have no sense of smell.

No, this isn’t a permanent condition. Many have been the times when I have buried my nose in Eric’s neck, just at the soft junction of his neck and his shoulder, to breathe in the sweet little-boy smell concentrated there that too soon will turn into soccer sweatiness and will-you-please-take-a-shower, and is that puberty knocking already?

But apparently the result of the massive sore throat I had before Christmas, which I stoically avoided mentioning having turned into a multi-day headache, the kind where your head explodes and your brain leaks out your nostrils every time you deviate slightly from a complete upright position, is that I no longer can smell.

Which makes eating sort of a useless exercise.

Which also means that the desperate scratching heard coming from one of the kittens inside the Igloo-shaped cat litter box not six feet from where I am sitting, means only one thing. Mute anxious eyes implore me to relieve those poor kittens, olfactory senses quite intact and superior to mine as it is, from their suffering:

CHANGE THE DAMN CAT BOX!

I seriously can’t even tell that there’s a double kittenweight of poop lying there in its rectal glory not six feet from me.

La la la la la.

See? Can’t even tell.

I hear that sometimes the sense of smell can be affected by illness for months.

Hmm.