Post-Op Day 10
Chaos. The doorbell rang over and over again. And then, in the middle of it all—Lola tried to jump out of the crate.
Little mermaid or not, her front legs are absurdly strong—I used to feel them when she pushed me off the bed—and she's just unhinged enough to try an escape.
I had to fully close the top of the crate to stop her from trying again.
She thinks I'm a tyrant. I detest my role as jailer—but here we are.
Post-Op Day 11
My body gave in. A migraine—the kind that arrives when I loosen my grip. With aura. A word so beautiful it heralds the worst.
I lay there, right temple pounding.
Lola sighed and ensured we carried on with the day:
Squeak. Pee. Devour. Rub. Sleep.
Bark. Pee again. Poo. Treat. Repeat. Sleep.
Stare. Stare harder. Huff. Moan. Beg. Devour. Beg. Ruffle. Pet me—properly this time. More. Keep going. Scratch. Enough. Stop! Sleep.
Squeak. Pee. Devour. Massage. Alright, again. Sleep.
Stare. Why are you not in bed? Scratch. Whine. Cuddle. Whine. Belly rub. Groan. Whine. Surrender. Sleep.
Lesson learned: Love is patient. Love is kind. Love sometimes won't let you nap.
Post-Op Day 13
Lola spent most of the week quiet, resting, and unimpressed. But today, she reclaimed a piece of herself, practising the fine art of play for the first time since Christmas. Not much—just squeezing the truth out of Mr. Oso, Sopranos-style.
We spent the rest of the day in bed, the winter sun warming us both.