Treatment — Week One

That word does not mean what one might think it would mean . . .

I am one full week into my new regiment of pharmaceutical therapy, and so far I can report that my health is well. Thanks to my recent pedicure, I’m happily running around and getting underfoot, now that they can’t hear me coming, so that’s been fun.

I am not happy with the amount of food I have not been getting. Not one single of the humans that decided I needed to lose weight are under 80lbs, so excuse me if a dog might think that they’re being a bit hypocritical. At least I’m still allowed my carrots and lettuce, but no more table scraps? Because I gained two whole pounds? Women! I tell you . . .

(Er. Don’t tell A Lady I said that!)

My second least favorite thing has been being pulled out of nice, warm, happy bed in the middle of the night, shoved into a harness, and thrust outside into the cold, dark, rainy air. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I am afraid of the dark. I simply do not want to be out in in, where I can’t see well, where things are waiting to get me. Like bears. And Neech.

I was fawned over and pampered for a few days after my visit, but now the Moms are back to, “No, Corbie,” and “Get down, Corbie,” and “Don’t chase Luna, Corbie.”

Happily, I do not think they know that I do understand English . . .

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