I have been away, whisked to bed like a character from a Jane Eyre book. Ill. Weak. Not participating. Bello took matters such as a walk and food into his own hands. While I tossed and turned through fevered dreams he left, multiple times day, through multiple escape hatches, to roam wild and free in the land of moistened garden beds and compost piles. Even in my altered state I knew when he had left. I could feel a stillness in the house and all I could do was hope he had his guardian angel with him. Sure enough, within a couple of hours I would hear a loud impatient scraping on the front door and I would struggle downstairs to let him him. In he would come, soaking wet, covered with leaves, panting even though it was rainy and cold, and farting a steady beat for the next couple of hours. He was exceptionally pleased with himself to the point of being annoying. But I was always so relieved to have him back that all I could do was thank him for returning. I am out of bed today. The first time in three days. The flu I guess. I had forgotten how terrible the flu can be. And I have a short rein on my little guy. Although he seems less likely to flee now that I am once again a potential source of fun. Ha! If he only knew how un-fun I still feel.