Dear Journal,
I write to you from the confines of this…prison. Once, I was a proud and noble livestock guardian, patrolling the fields, barking at rogue butterflies, and valiantly protecting my from imaginary threats. But that life—that freedom—is gone now.
It all began last week on a sunny Tuesday. I was so excited. They said, “Wanna go for a ride?” and I said, “HECK YES I DO.” I jumped into the truck like the good boy I am. Oh, the wind in my ears! The smells! Adventure was calling.
Little did I know… I was being betrayed.
We arrived at the vet’s. A place I had once loved. Treats! Pets! Weird little dogs in sweaters I could sniff! But this time was different. They left me there.
They. Left. Me.
When I awoke, something was… missing. I won’t go into detail, Journal, but let’s just say the family jewels had been repossessed.
I returned home wearing what they call a “cone.” I call it a “satellite of doom.” I can’t lick anything, I can’t go anywhere without knocking over furniture, and I have not successfully navigated a doorway since. It’s like trying to live with a lampshade strapped to your soul.
I did manage to remove my stitches, which felt like a win at the time. But then came the vet trip at night. The emergency place. They stapled me shut like a used Amazon box and gave me an even bigger cone. I removed those too. (I refuse to be held together by your human office supplies.)
Now I wear a ridiculous inflatable neck donut. I look like I’m about to board a red-eye to Florida. And I still have the cone as well. It’s like they’re stacking shame on top of shame.
They keep me indoors now. Indoors.
No goats. No mud. No air thick with the scent of chicken poop. Just... the couch.
My only solace is passive-aggressively sighing and flopping dramatically in the middle of the hallway, where they’ll trip over me and feel the full weight of my suffering.
I don’t know how much longer I can survive like this.
Send help. Or beef jerky. Or both.
Yours in suffering and inflatable accessories,
Charlie, the Formerly Intact
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