Looking After Me

We lay down in the grass and cuddle. I am glad you are back. I take a deep breath and pick up the phone, to break the news with people abroad, who expect us to come and visit.

God damnit Kenzo.

It should have been a thorn they found, maybe even a copper wire, whatever, embedded in your foot. Like they found with Viva before you.

The news I bring is not good. And the talk on the phone is going on while I caress you with one hand. You've been through a lot today, and glad to be home again, where you are safest. You are sound asleep again, in no time.

When I am finally off the phone, I only have an empty glaze left. Ten days we have to wait for the verdict, benign or malignant. Benign or malignant. Benign or malignant. Now we wait. Ten days we wait. Dear Lord. Please. Not Kenzo. Disheartened, I wonder, how many have wished that, before me?

You wake up, and move your still drugged body after the operation backwards, and make an attempt for a high five with your operated paw. Always looking after me, you are. It is not fair. Let it be my turn now.