|Exhibit A: plate with cookie. Exhibit B: mountain. Exhibit C: good foot and bad foot.|
What am I, chopped liver?
She broke her foot (second time around, same bone: what a klutz) so she comes back from surgery and stays in bed all day. Was I consulted? Did I give permission to stop catering to me? None that I recall.
The first day she was emanating such vibes of pain, I fled to the other room.
I now look in on her, give her kisses, hoping she'll get up and play. No such luck.
She suspects (sometimes correctly) that my kisses are actually ways in which I try to pry open her mouth to smell or even steal the food she should be giving to me. I also tend to try to burrow my tongue and one of my canines deep inside her nostrils. I don't understand her problem with this. Delicious.
I am bored out of my wits.
For starters, her crutches smell uncannily like rubber balls, which are my number one obsession on Earth, so why are they in her armpits?
My bed (you heard right) has been colonized by a mountain of pillows and tubes for an ice machine and a big black limb I dare not go near to. Except, that is, to steal a cookie, in which case I gingerly surrounded the obstacle, was extremely careful not to disturb the injured foot, mind you, and climbed the mountain, to my own considerable amazement, since I am afraid of heights. I was ready to pounce, when she shooed me away with her good foot. So I bit her in the toe. Gently, as a warning. She was appalled. Called me ingrate, perfidious hound ("Ingrata, pérfida", in Spanish). Bullshit. She loves it when I am rebellious.
Well, I don't love it when she can't play. I'm letting her pet me because she claims it's therapeutic. Anything to get her out of the house with me soon.