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 my wife 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 that I drooled on my pillowcase or that 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 my hand on the bed’s bottom sheet. Of course, when it’s actually blood oozing from my nasal cavity, rather than a more innocuous bodily fluid, the pillowcase and sheets on my side of the bed end up looking like 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 at 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 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’d left the house Prometheus had begun 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 rushed him to the Vet. The doctor had finished tending him only minutes before she phoned me. After a thorough examination, he 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’d been laying on my stomach with my head turned to the side, and with Prometheus snuggled under my chin. “Funny story, Sophia …,” I began. That’s when I received her ultimatum.