Beyond Repair

No surprise that the whipped cream on the top of my super-terrific week is that it's Friday night and I'm staring at the broken guts of my sofa, the first true casualty of Kid A's burgeoning gymnastics career.

 

Now how does one even begin to put those pieces and springs back together?  Cripes.
The house is currently a shambles, including our poor, sweet Oscar who we thought would be venturing into the void this evening.

 

He won't even look at me for a photo, he's so mad that I sent him off to the vet, thinking he wouldn't come back (this is actually the third time--fooled again!).  I was sobbing for you though, old friend, wanting you here yet not wanting you to suffer and hobble through your life.
Turns out Oscar was sent home with a bag of medicines and a steep receipt for services rendered (like rehydrating him--thanks Doc.).  He's old, hobbled, falling apart, and as Chris says "too sick to use the litter box yet too well to meet his maker."  Or something like that.  He's a real Bob Barker at heart.

I'm waiting for a wall to collapse on me, or maybe just this couch.

Dare I leave it 'til morning?  Watch out Oscar!  You've used at least one of your 9 lives tonight already.

So what would you do? Fix it? Experiment with a floor-focused Moroccan seating arrangement of just pillows (god knows we have hundreds of them).  I'm at a loss, though maybe morning light will come with an answer.  Happy weekend friends!