How we get winter amnesia

I just want to say: 75 degrees during the day, a cool breeze, and then 50’s at night, and yeah, I blocked out all thoughts of the previous hideous, dark and endless winter. There are house finch chatting on the bird feeder, George is out on the porch in the sun. And Tiny Dog, despite the warmth, is again under a blanket, next to me on the couch.

Wren is upstairs, like always, but with a scent of sadness. She scratched her cornea a week ago and I just can’t get it to heal. I had to do mean vet things, like stain her eye to find the ulcer, and give her eye drops six times a day. Then on Friday, I numbed her eye surface and took a sterile cotton swab—folks, you might want to skip this next part—then I slowly and carefully rubbed away the loose outer cell layers, the epithelium, making the ulcer area bigger, boo, but hopefully the cells can stick down more. If not: repeat. And if this fails: ophthalmologist.

There have been less kisses around here lately, as Wren is hiding from me.

Wren is the most sensitive rose of the house. A spoon set down on a plate, a lingering look at her while she eats, a purse falling off a shelf—all of these will set her rigid and her belly to the floor. So you can imagine she LOVES to have eyedrops put in. I feel like such a jerk. One of the two kinds of drops makes her squinting worse, but I persevere, seeing that Remend drops help the corneal build what their website says is cross-hatching. And a bunch of other big science words.

No matter. I still feel like the monster with the eyedropper. I did trick her into thinking her flavored liquid pain med is a cookie. Then I smother her with kisses. She’s not really sitting by me much these days, but again: eye dropper. Run, holy moly, run.

She is, as vet tech friend says, A very sad panda.

Trying on these legged PJs makes Wren feel the same way as giving eye meds: AWFUL.

I have been taking her to the dog park, though, with her sisters, and she loves to ride in the back, standing up, looking out at the cars in the next lane. She creates smiles and comments at the red lights, and my little spotted ambassador, corneal ulcer or not, goes on, vibrant, as we drive along. Summer, she smells and pants, summer!