So here is me, at home, at lunch, recovering from a panic attack. OVER A CAT. Details below.
Leaving in the morning, I left the cone off because I just felt so darn bad for her. Mistake of the day. I get to work, tell my coworker about my weekend and Tobi and eventually it comes out that yes, I removed the cone. First time pet-owner here, guys. She proceeds to tell me her personal horror story about removing the cone thing before it was time to with her own dog. It involved blood and a vet visit and I can only imagine THE MOST HORRIFYING DISCOVERY EVER. Needless to say I was completely paranoid after our conversation. The mental image of what I’d be going home to that evening was very …bleak.
So as soon as the clocked neared lunch, I raced off home, and practically kicked down my door yelling TOBI DON’T BITE YOUR WOUNDS, WAAAAAIT! She was totally fine, sleeping in fact, and woke to just look at me like, Dammit Woman. Get a grip.
I squeezed the cone back on her, and I’m confident that we now have a mother-teenager type relationship, i.e. she completely hates me for doing what’s best for her. She has absolutely zero balance or depth perception so it’s very sad to watch her stumble around, hitting walls, acting like she finally found where I hide my good whiskey.*
* No, I don’t drink whiskey. It’s from New Years.