Beethoven has been shot! Well, only with x-ray guns. In fact, he's in his third week of going in every day for a shooting. He's like a Hollywood star! Me, not so much. I'm just a meat puppet in the system.
Every morning I undress and lay on the bed while nurses tie my feet down and do exotic and strange things to my body. It's not so much fun. Everyone flees out past the red warning signs that say “lethal environment” while I stay there getting beamed at, purportedly, by invisible rays emanating from futuristic looking equipment that would make the people of Star Wars jealous. Not the movie actors, the actual real spacemen. Laser beams are everywhere. Cryptic symbols inked on my body line up with them, and a huge looming head like a T-rex hovers over me, moving from side to side and going “hmmm ... hmmm ...” as if deciding whether I'm edible. The technicians are emphatic that I dasn't move a muscle, so I assume a huge toothy maw is behind me that will open up and ingest me whole if ever I should twitch.
I come in feeling good, and leave midway on the scale between 'strung out' and 'wasted'. It's what druggies call “fucked up” only without the euphoria. Of course the experts assure me radiation should have no ill effects. Don't believe them, they Lie! It's not their nausea, y'see. But the upside! Beethoven is shedding weight like an Adkins spokesman, defying the sawbone' s “you haven't had enough radiation yet to do anything.” Not being a trained professional in health care, I likely just imagine that Beethoven is only half as big, has pulled his paws away from my backbone and no longer sticks his claws in my spine when I try to move. The ditch I dug in the backyard is doubtless a figment as well.
Nevertheless, death seems unlikely, so see your bookie and adjust your bets accordingly.