Actually, the mere fact that he even entertained the notion for a second is testament to his undying love for me. I haven't been a pleasant wife for today. I'm never a good companion when I'm (SNORT!) sick. And I'm sick. As a dog. For the past couple of days, the illness has resided in my throat as a nagging but almost ignorable scratchiness and a tendency to sing contrabass in the mornings. Midway through church today, the disease made its trek upwards into my sinus cavity, and I've been, sadly, unbearable since.

I hate being congested. When I was a kid, I'd actually sleep upright in a chair when I was stuffed up; I'd try cramming sleeping bags under the head of my mattress in attempts to elevate my head at night. I may have actually lost a boyfriend once due to congestion-related crankiness; I developed a cold on the way home from an amusement park and insisted, against his wishes, that he pull over for some tissues. We never really got along after that.

I don't wanna write about my cold, though. I have to write about love. Hearts, flowers, and honeybees! Kisses in the rain and sensual backrubs in front of roaring fireplaces on bearskin rugs.

Let me tell you what real love is. Love is a husband who can come home from an early weekend morning of computer shopping (don't ask) and be greeted by a sleep-encrusted wife with a voice like Barry White, only huskier, can hear her rasp out, "I haven't ovulated yet," and be ready for business. Love means being able to overlook almost visible swarms of germs.

Okay, maybe that's a little extreme. He loves me in small ways, too, like understanding that my current state of extreme brittleness will end as soon as I can breathe. Knowing that my sore throat makes it difficult for me to read out loud to him like I usually do, and choosing to read to me, instead - even the article about penile size. Hearing me say to several other choir members, during The Peace, "Sorry, I can't shake your hand; I'm sick," and pulling me close anyway.

I should really do something nice for him, once I'm feeling better.

I love Puffs Plus tissues. They allow me to blow my nose twice as often before I start getting that cracked and bleeding sensation in my nostrils.

I love Contac Day & Night cold pills. I can't take them now, for fear they'll dry up my cervical fluids and hamper fertilization, but as soon as I know that I've ovulated, I'll pop 'em like crazy. I'll have a bit of time before implantation, during which the egg would just be floating free, and I can take whatever pills I need.

I love the feeling you get when you stand up and suddenly your nasal passages are free and clear! It only lasts a few seconds, but in the meantime, it's heaven.

I love McDonald's french fries. I've decided that they're one of the best non-medical treatments for illness.

I love buckwheat husk pillows. They stay nice and cool even when I'm having a sweaty, toss-and-turn kind of night, and they keep my head and neck supported much better than sleeping bags under the mattress ever did.  Sobakawa...For a restful sleep!

I love my husband for not complaining when I steal his Sobakawa pillow.

I love grape juice, because it's one of the few foods that doesn't change its taste when you're sick. I could drink a gallon of it at one sitting, just for that fact.

I love not being sick. I love breathing through my nose, and sounding female. I love sleeping through the night comfortably. Oh, my lost loves...return to me!

"I wish they could love us."
"What, Eric?"
"The guinea pigs. I wish they could love us back."
"I'm sure they would if they weren't so terrified."

Dogs love their masters. Cats, at the least, tolerate them. Birds and fish seem to ignore their humans. Our guinea pigs live in constant fear of us. When a hand is extended into their hutch for a loving stroke, they wheek in fright and run for cover. We've tried bribing them with greens; they take the food and chew quickly while watching us nervously. We've tried letting them run free; they cavort with each other, but hide when they notice us watching. We've tried holding them more often; it seems a sick sort of torture to cuddle an animal that thinks of you as a vicious predator.

Eric and I love our pets, so it's heartbreaking to see their eyes widen and their ears quiver at the sight of us. What kind of love is this, that keeps its objects penned up in proximity to that which it fears most? Eric has actually suggested freeing them, since they seem to want to be alone. Still, we want them fed, warm, and safe, so in the house of the Giant Pink Monsters they stay. Wheek!

Love protects, in this case, even when the party in question doesn't understand why it must be protected. We wish they could feel our love for them, but, as Eric says, "They are simply piggies, and will never understand."