Hello. It’s me.
We inch closer and closer to Halloween … my second Halloween. It’s a time when playful children dress up in costumes and beg for treats, things like Mounds Bars, for instance. In my case, Mom & Dad dressed me up as a blueberry … all tricks, no treats.
Mom say when I stop picking at my wound, I can take the cone off. This is my desperate response to her proclamation.
Dad sees the world differently than Mom – he lets me waltz around the house, cone-free. You’d think I would welcome the level of freedom Dad offers. You’d be wrong. He follows me around the house and grounds like the press corps following a Presidential Candidate through the diners and drive-ins of Iowa. It’s exhausting – I’m constantly looking over my shoulder for the next violation of my privacy.
I pine for the days when I could just hang out and chillax. Remember the good ‘ole days, when I could introduce myself to you with a gleeful “HELLO, IT’S ME!!!” Or I could even offer you this dull look … still fulfilling the introduction to every blog post I “write”.
Today, however, this blank look is reserved for Dad, who took me to the vet a week ago and things haven’t been the same since. Thanks. Dad. 7-10 days with a cone couldn’t come to an end soon enough. And if I keep rubbing my undercarriage on gravel, 10-14 days with a cone couldn’t come to an end soon enough.