Lions and tigers and hairs, oh my

My father tells me it can all go away if I just get a series of shots. He's right, I know, but it's not covered by my insurance and I don't particularly like the idea of going week after week or month after month to have sharp metal objects stuck into my arm and then strange liquids injected. A not very pleasant sort of experience, although the one I'm stuck in now is hardly fun either. Enclosed in a self-induced fog I am fascinated by repetition and shape, by light, color, sound, lulled easily by the whir of the wheels on the pavement or the freezer cycling in the next room. I hardly pay attention to what I type here, my finger moving slothfully across the keyboard and my brain for once moving as slowly as I type. It will wear off by tomorrow morning but I know that it awaits me every time I go back for a visit and carefully avoid the silky tails and rasping tongues that I miss so much. A warm, vibrating body nestled against your feet or in the crook of your arm or comfortingly weighing upon your stomach, velvety paw-pads tucked under or splayed out or rhythmically pulsing. It bothers me to push them away (without even my flesh touching them!), to inconvenience hosts, to deprive myself presumably forever. But the drugs don't even work that well with this odd zonking effect and I can't quite imagine paying hundreds (thousands?) of dollars to avoid an inconvenience despite the potential quality-of-life benefit. Maybe someday I'll just get a snake.