(Mojo’s POV)
Let me be clear: I love her. I do.
She’s my human. My person. My pillow. My snack portal.
But this house? This house is unwell.
And frankly? So am I.
She’s sick again. Which means the whole place shuts down.
No snacks. No vibes. No joy.
Just nausea, heating pads, and vibes of doom.
Here’s a recap of my day:
7:12 a.m.
She threw up.
I supervised. I stayed at the door like a haunted Victorian child. I made it clear I was emotionally available.
No one thanked me.
8:03 a.m.
She went back to sleep. I maintained physical contact at all times in case she forgot I existed.
She snored. I sighed.
9:00 a.m.
She finally sat up. I tripped her. For balance. For grounding.
I am a medical tool.
10:14 a.m.
She took her meds and made the “everything tastes like battery acid” face. I did not comfort her.
I simply blinked slowly to express solidarity and mild judgment.
Midday was rough.
She didn’t move much.
Didn’t eat anything interesting.
Didn’t watch anything fun.
Just laid there under ten thousand blankets smelling like peppermint oil and depression.
I offered her my toy.
Placed it gently on her chest.
No response.
Devastating.
2:37 p.m.
Tried to sniff the medication bag.
Got scolded.
She said something about “dangerous.”
Ma’am… you just drank liquid nausea poison and I’M the problem?
4:00 p.m.
Still no walk.
Still no snacks.
Still no acknowledgement of my emotional labor.
I barked at the hallway out of protest.
5:19 p.m.
She finally ate a cracker.
I watched the cracker the entire time.
It was not shared.
I’m filing an HR complaint.
Now it’s evening.
She’s asleep again.
I’m curled next to her, one paw on her arm like a stethoscope, one eye open for medical emergencies or snack openings.
It’s hard being the backbone of this household.
I didn’t choose this role.
But greatness was thrust upon me.
I am the nurse.
I am the emotional support.
I am the drama.
Love,
Mojo
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