2:25am: Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.
3:38am: Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.
I rub behind his ears until he falls back asleep.
5:05am. Hot pug breath envelopes my face, amplified by the cone that covers both our heads now. I rub again and nudge back down to the end of the bed.
Bleeeeep...bleeeeep...bleeeeeep...bleeeeep. The alarm is set to crescendo from faint to pleasantly audible. It's supposed to be less jarring.
It's not.
Making coffee: Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.
Getting dressed for work: Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.
Curling my hair: Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.
"Look Rocky," I say, "You've got to wear that thing for two weeks, so you'd better start making peace with it." He cocks his heads, looking at me like he knows I'm probably saying something amazingly interested, but he he no idea on God's green earth what it could possibly be. I'm used to this look. Everyone with balls in this house looks at me this same way when I talk these days.
I sigh: Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.
Two weeks. Twenty-four hours in a day. One day down. Only 13 more to go.
Skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet, skreet.
Shit.
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