Dear Goddamned Beagle,
First, let me say that I agree with your opinion about recent changes around here. I don’t like them either. I’d also like to point out, though, that while I’m not pleased, you don’t see me chewing on hospital equipment. Just something to consider.
You and I have shared frustration at my inability to walk you as long as you’d like, and so for that and a few other reasons unimportant to you personally, I had to have me knee replaced. This is why you had to go to camp, and this is why Auntie J picked you up in our car. I know, very odd, not approved, though I believe she’s owed a large tip for her chauffeuring skills.
It’s also why you came home to a bed – a TWIN bed – in the middle of the living room, me in it and unable to get up to properly great you. I did try to convey my apologies, but your wailing and howling made it difficult to be heard. Yes, I agree, it had been far too long since we’d seen each other.
Your assessment of the walker was accurate: you walked next to it, in it, under it, all while I was coincidentally also walking in it, and then, after a couple of days, decided it was clearly not worth all that effort, and so chewed on it. Should I ever be in a walker race, say, or park mine next to many others while being strip-searched at TSA as they search for reasons the metal detector keeps going off when my right leg passes through security, I’ll know it’s mine right away. Thanks for that time saver.
You finally settled down, and as I dozed and awoke during those first few days I noticed your head just a little closer each time, like a stop-action film directed by Oxycodone. While adorable, it was also just a little creepy. Still, I appreciated the company, as well as your efforts to curl up as small as possible next to my head. As I’ve gotten better you’ve gotten more and more comfortable with the set up, sleeping to the side and then across me, and until I got clearance yesterday to move back upstairs to my king-sized bed, I was considering renting a second hospital bed so that both of us could fit. Learning how to keep you from falling off in your sleep really educated me on the proper use of those side bars, by the way.
It should not go without mentioning how much I appreciate your efforts in self-control. Through the last fourteen-or-so days you’ve only stolen a few entire meals, and you’ve stayed in place, beside me on the bed while I ate and waited (not patiently – let’s not exaggerate) until I was done and gave you my plate to clean off. The notable exception was your attacking all roast vegetable plates with the gusto of a vegan after a hunger strike. Who knew that roast cauliflower and broccoli would be such a temptation to you? I won’t tell the other beagles. It would only make you look weak in their bugged eyes.
It’s been a couple of weeks now and I’d say we’re both doing much better. While it’s notable that I have no more room on the king than I had on the twin, somehow you seem much happier with the set up. Your burritoing has returned to normal, and last night you dove head-first into a quart of cubed watermelon, which you don’t like. As you and the container fell off the side table, your shoulders wedged into the clear plastic container, the fork dangerously close to your eye, the fruit splashing and spilling as you tumbled and the table fell away, I saw you look my way as I got up to catch you.
“There,” you grinned. “This is much better, and look how well you’re moving now with my help.”
Much appreciated, Beagz.