I finally got my pesky bleeder taken care of today. My leaky nostril that is. After weeks suffering involuntary bloodlettings, I bit the bullet and asked my doctor to cauterize the defective nasal vessel. I had no choice, however. As the Mrs. had proclaimed, my nose and I would have to sleep elsewhere if we didn’t resolve our problem, pronto.
I can’t say I blame Sophia either. Almost all my nosebleeds have occurred in the middle of the night, in our bed. Typically, when the episodes take place, I awake believing either I drooled on my pillowcase or my nose was running. My usual remedy for drooling entails flipping my pillow over to the dry side. For a nighttime runny nose, laziness precludes any action other than wiping it with the back of my hand and then rubbing the bottom sheet. Of course, when it’s actually blood oozing from my nasal cavity, rather than a more innocuous fluid, the pillowcase and sheets on my side of the bed end up resembling a crime scene.
Before today, Sophia hadn’t excessively nagged me to rectify the issue. She’s a whiz with the laundry, and she’s always managed to remove the stains from our bedding. Thus, the “no harm, no foul” rule kept her shy of ultimatums … until now.
Apparently, I suffered a doozy of a nosebleed in my sleep last night. It must’ve stopped shortly before my alarm went off this morning, because I didn’t realize I’d suffered another leak while I slept. I’m not surprised by my failure to notice the problem though. I had to wake up much earlier than usual to make an early morning court date south of Atlanta. After stumbling in the dark directly to the shower, I’d dressed and sped from the house without ever examining my side of the bed.
Shortly after 8:00 a.m., I received a call from Sophia, from the Vet’s office. As she explained, minutes after I left the house, Prometheus began whining to go outside. Bleary-eyed, she’d let him out to do his business. He promptly chased something into our bushes and disappeared from sight for a minute. While rooting about, he apparently cut his head on the sharp edge of a broken branch. Or so Sophia concluded, when he emerged from the bushes sporting a blood-matted scalp.
Panic stricken, she’d rushed him to the Vet. The doctor finished tending him only minutes before she phoned me. After a thorough examination, he’d failed to discover even the tiniest scratch on the dog’s noggin. Though conceding that clotted blood covered the area, the doc assured Sophia that none of the substance was the dog’s own.
Listening to Sophia jogged my memory. At the moment my alarm went off, I was laying on my stomach, head turned to the side, with Prometheus snuggled under my chin. “Funny story, Sophia,” I began. That’s when I received her ultimatum.