It wasn’t the catfish and it wasn’t food poisoning. Nah, it turned out to be old-fashioned, gut-wrenching, colon-flushing, stomach-contents hurling, fever-raging flu.

And, as I always try to do with my bride of 26 years, I shared. Good thing this house has three bathrooms.

Sunday started out looking better but queasiness sat back in Sunday night and Monday dawned feverish and bowel-contentious. Then things seemed to get better by late afternoon and I tried to eat something.

Wrong. By midnight, back on my knees in the john, testing the limits of my stomach muscles and the Thompson septic system.

Amy? She’s somewhere in the house, not too far from a bathroom, probably plotting my demise in some gruesome way for sharing this demon called the flu.