Ari and I are both in bad moods. We’re both not really ourselves at the moment and it’s showing. I’m thoroughly fed up with wearing a cone and being in my crate so much. Ari is just worried.
It all came to a head on Saturday when Mum took us both into the garden at the same time. Being in a cone leaves you feeling vulnerable. You don’t want another bad tempered dog sniffing around you. Anyway, to cut a long story short Ari and I got into a bit of a fight. The only casualty was my cone, which was plastic and split.
For a moment I thought that might be good news. The edges were clearly dangerous and Mum would obviously have to take it off me. I’d forgotten how prepared for every eventuality she is. In the cupboard was an old soft cone of the right size. I can’t remember which of us had that one, but it fits me. Now I’m really sorry I split the plastic one. If you feel miserable in one you can see out of, that’s nothing to one that is soft black padded material that doesn’t let in the light.
Anyway, not only have I now got a far worse cone to wear, but Ari and I are being kept apart until we can get our health problems sorted. I do understand why I have to be supervised in the garden. There are only so many flowers Mum wants to have decapitated by me running through them with my cone, but I really want to get on with life and have a good run. Mum has promised we’ll do just that as soon as we can, but you all know that patience isn’t my thing.