Under the Knife

I had an operation yesterday. I have been told that it is supposed to make me feel better. I am not sure how I feel, because now that it’s over, things that usually never weird me out are really, really weirding me out. Like Mommy. She looks like Mommy, and smells like Mommy, but I just look at her with languid eyes. I think, “You are Mommy, but maybe you are also a stranger. How is it that you are all shimmery?” She came home last night and I didn’t move from my perch. She said hello and asked how I was doing. I looked at her and made little whining noises.

Sometimes I don’t want her to touch me, so I run in a circle around Duncan and the Big Guy, who are sitting on the floor. Sometimes I want to sleep near her. Today I lack decision-making skills. I, Poppy, am usually very decisive. I am a pug who knows what she wants and where she wants to sit. But now I sit on the floor and look up at the sofa, like it is a mirage. I want to go to the mirage, but I am not sure that it is real. In my frustration, I sit, staring at the mirage/tangible object. Mommy makes the sofa real by patting on it and saying, “Come up here.”

And then there’s the dryer. Usually it doesn’t bother me. But now I keep my ears perked, listening to the zippers and buttons banging against the drum. Surely we are being attacked. I think it’s the pink squirrels who are attacking. From time to time, I lift my head and stare at them with wide eyes.

We are being attacked, but for some reason all I can do is cry. We are being attacked, no one else knows it, and I am too tired to warn them. I continue to cry very, very softly.

At some point last night, Mommy fed me beef-baby food from a jar. It smelled very yummy, like cat food, and Duncan wanted it, too. Mommy held it on a spoon in front of me and for the first time that evening my little toungue emerged to lap at it. She put the rest of my food in my bowl and I ate it, rather inefficiently. When I finished, there was still a lot left, smeared all over the inside of the bowl. Duncan came over and finished it for me. Mommy and the Big Guy said, “There she is. She’s back to herself.”

I am wearing a t-shirt that says “Snowmass.” I am not wearing this shirt because I like to ski. That would be silly. Pugs don't ski. Pugs don't even like snow. I'm wearing it so I don’t mess with my stitches. I can’t wear a cone, because dogs who have heads smaller than their necks can’t wear cones. I don’t think that the cone situation is funny. Mommy, the Big Guy, and my grandparents think it is funny. They laugh, but I don’t pay them attention because I am still watching the pink squirrels.

Today I am almost back to myself. I could only must one small bark this morning, when I was waiting to be fed. I ate my whole breakfast.