Nine days after her blood-gushing, vet-biting, pill-popping trip to the pet emergency room, Little Miss Poopsalot is back to her normal self . . . meaning no more hand-cooked meals, or prescription medicine hidden in cheese. I’m not sure how she will muddle through, but I think her plan involves a great deal of napping.

In other news, I went to the gym today, and a weird guy called himself my boyfriend. Here’s how it happened: I had arrived and was changing into my exercise costume, and he came around the corner and said hello. But I had just taken off my glasses and had to squint to see who it was, and he said, “Why are you squinting?” and I said, “Because I’m not wearing my glasses,” and he said, “It’s me, your boyfriend.”

Now, I already have two other boyfriends (Matt Damon and the Mac) and a husband, so the stable is getting full. I’d say there’s always room for one more, but this weird guy is doubly weird because he’s been hitting on me for weeks in the locker room, and one would think he would have better choices in a gym locker room, especially as he is a personal trainer and sort of knows what to look for.

In other news, when I was working out, I started listening to a new audiobook about not thinking, which is based on a book I read a couple of years ago about not thinking. When I tried not thinking before, when I read the book, I kept erupting in these weird bursts of anger, but listening to the audiobook makes the whole thing sound like a gentler experience. Perhaps I will listen long enough to discover what Eckhart Tolle thinks about road rage.

If he’s running true to form, the answer will probably be “nothing.”