Dog Diary - End of week 9 Ten Days of Glorious Recuperation
Working title: “I Survived. I Thrived. I Stole the Bed.”
Dear Diary,
It has been ten whole days since we last spoke, and while there have been very few outings (apparently stitches are “non-negotiable”), there has been an absolute explosion of vibes.
Let me explain.
Since my very dramatic, very expensive, very life-saving surgery, I have entered what the humans are calling “a new phase.”
I call it The Renaissance.
Due to my stitches (which are apparently “important” and “must not be ripped open no matter how much I want to gallop”), there has been very little to report in the way of outings. No grand adventures. No long walks. Very sensible, very responsible.
And yet — it has been rich.
I have decided that I deeply enjoy lying in the grass.
Not rolling.
Not digging.
Just lying.
I absorb the smells. The breeze. The distant gossip of birds.
Sometimes — and this is important — I do this alone, without humans hovering anxiously over me like worried helicopters. I simply exist. A small white creature, marinating peacefully in fresh air and smells.
It is exquisite.
This independence has shocked everyone.
Last Saturday, something extraordinary happened.
Last Saturday, when the anaesthetic fog finally lifted, I woke up feeling like I had been given a new body, a new brain, and possibly a second adolescence.
Diary… I came back different.
Where once there was a polite shuffle, there is now velocity.
Where once there was a gentle stroll, there is now interpretive sprinting.
I do not simply "walk" anymore.
I run.
I hop.
I prance.
I tear through the house like a horse released from a stable, despite having legs roughly the size of breadsticks.
I run from room to room.
I run outside.
I run in circles for reasons known only to me.
I have developed a favourite game called “Chase Me, You Cowards.”
I sprint into a room, drop my body very low to the ground, flash a cheeky grin, and then launch myself away the moment someone acknowledges my existence.
I am delighted when they chase me.
I am offended when they do not.
Since my surgery, I have not wiped the smile off my face.
Not once.
It appears to be permanently installed.
Now, Diary… let us discuss the bed.
At night, I have been sleeping in the humans’ bed. They claim this was a “practical decision” because when I wear the cone I shake my head loudly and wake them up.
I believe this is a lie.
I believe they simply cannot resist me.
I have been sleeping in their bed because it is rightfully mine.
I have enjoyed ten consecutive nights of luxury accommodation.
One day, I slept until 1:15pm.
The following day, until 3pm.
The humans conduct regular welfare checks, tucking my bare little belly into the quilt to keep me warm and snug, whispering things like “how is she still asleep?”
I am resting. Deeply. Intentionally.
Despite being very small, I have successfully removed the woman from the bed nine out of ten nights.
This morning, she attempted to roll over and discovered I had stolen her pillow.
She does not understand how this is possible.
Neither do I.
But power respects no physics.
Last Friday, I returned to the vet for a check-up.
More ear samples were taken. Serious conversations were had about creating a special gel to keep my ears free from bacteria forever, so I may continue living at maximum speed without dizziness, pain, or the overwhelming urge to shake my head like a maraca.
Today, I went back again — this time to have my stitches removed.
Much excitement.
Much praise.
Much admiration of my healing.
The vet and the human overlords are very pleased with me.
I accepted their praise with grace.
Each evening now, the woman and I sit together for my moisturising ritual.
She applies special dog moisturiser to my feet and elbows.
It contains silver.
This feels correct.
I am, after all, extremely valuable.
I would also like to note that I am now so fast the woman cannot capture my movement on film.
I appear only as a blur.
A whisper.
A rumour.
A ninja....
Diary, none of this — none of it — would have been possible without the rescue and the extraordinary humans who donate to help dogs like me.
From the bottom of my 13-year-old heart that believes it is 3, thank you.
There is still more ahead.
I have not yet revealed that I also have breast cancer.
But what I can tell you is this:
The operation I had has changed my life.
My pain is gone.
My world feels bigger.
My tail has not stopped wagging.
And for now — that is enough.
Today, I am joyful and alive in a way I have not been for a very long time.
And that, Diary, is everything.
End of Ten Days.
Mission: Heal Like Royalty. Rediscover Joy. Rule the Bed.
Status: Thriving. Grateful. Uncontainable.
Sara
Matriarch of the Lawn
Bed Acquisition Specialist
Tiny Dog, Monumental Comeback
Addendum to the Official Record (Very Important Development)
Diary,
I cannot believe I almost failed to document one of my greatest achievements to date.
After much observation, strategic thinking, and pretending not to care, I have successfully worked out how to get onto the humans’ beanbag entirely by myself.
No lifting.
No assistance.
No encouraging claps or whispered “you can do it” nonsense.
Just pure intellect and commitment.
The beanbag, once a mysterious, shifting beast with no clear edges, is now conquered territory. I approach with confidence, launch with purpose, and sink into it like a queen reclaiming her throne.
The humans reacted as though I had cured something.
They gasped.
They celebrated.
They said things like, “Did you see that?!” and “She did it all by herself!”
Yes.
I did.
I now rotate between:
The bed
The couch
The lawn
The beanbag
I am building an empire of soft surfaces.
Please update all records accordingly.
— Sara
Beanbag Independent
Small Dog, Big Brain
