🐾 A Day in the Life of Mojo: Emotional Support Loaf, Snack Security, and Full-Time Shadow

Letters From the Mess (Dog Edition)

Hi. I’m Mojo.

I’m a French Bulldog.
Technically, I’m just a pet.
But in this house, I am also:
– Head of Emotional Support
– Director of Bed Gravity
– Medical Alert Dog (self-appointed)
– CEO of Staring at Her Until She Drinks Water

And this is what a full day looks like when you live with a chronically ill human who smells like chemo, sadness, and peanut butter toast.

6:37 AM – Rise and Judge

Mom stirs. I am already watching her.

She hasn’t moved in hours. I’ve been perched like a baked potato at the foot of the bed.
She groans. I snort in solidarity.
We’re already tired and we haven’t even peed yet.

She says, “Today might be a better day.”

I do not believe her.

7:12 AM – Pills & Panic

She takes her meds. The Important Ones. The ones that might work or might make her feel like roadkill. It’s a gamble.

I am nearby. Watching. Judging.
This is when I begin monitoring.
My job is to smell weird shifts in her energy and alert the husband if she starts slurring or going sideways.

She calls it “alerting.”

I call it “Oh no, she’s doing the dying face again.”

8:30 AM – Bathroom Time (Team Effort)

She goes to the bathroom.
I follow. Obviously.
She says “give me some privacy.”
I pretend not to hear her.

She’s not allowed to be unsupervised.
What if she passes out on the cold tile again?
What if she drops a cracker?

These are things I must consider.

9:44 AM – Couch Mode Activated

We move to the couch.
She’s bundled like a burrito made of pain and regret.
I assume the position: wedged into her ribs, staring at her soul.

A nurse calls. She ignores it.
A friend texts. She doesn’t answer.
I judge her silently, then fart to remind her I’m still present.

It smells like solidarity.

11:06 AM – Crisis, But Make It Quiet

She tries to eat.
That goes badly.
There is a vomiting episode.
I supervise.
I do not flinch.
I never flinch.

I am the rock in the ocean of nausea.
I am also licking the salt off her knee.
This is medical.

12:42 PM – Depression Nap #1

She cries. Then passes out.
I lay beside her like a weighted meatloaf.
She twitches in her sleep. I twitch with her.
Our sleep is synced.
Our trauma is shared.

It is sacred.

2:15 PM – Attempted Productivity (Laughable)

She opens her laptop.
Says she might “write something.”
Ends up watching 42 TikToks and crying over a frog who plays the piano.

I lick her hand and close the laptop with my body.
No work today.
Only survival.

3:57 PM – Afternoon Check-In

Dad comes home. He whispers, “How is she?”
I stare at him.
We both know what that means.

She says, “I’m okay.”
We both know that’s a lie.

6:08 PM – Refusal to Eat Dinner (Again)

She sniffs her food like she’s in a cooking competition and someone just plated disappointment.
I offer to eat it.
She says no.
I bark once. It’s a compromise.

Eventually, she eats toast.
I am allowed a crumb.
We are healing.

8:36 PM – Cuddle Time (Critical)

She says, “Come here.”
I do not hesitate.
She pulls me into her arms and sighs like I’m the only thing in this whole world that still makes her feel safe.

She’s right.
I am.

10:42 PM – The Blanket Shuffle

She tries to get comfortable.
Her joints hurt. Her stomach hurts. Her skin hurts.
She cries into my fur.

I don’t fix anything.
But I stay.

And that’s what makes me more qualified than half her medical team.

12:19 AM – Final Rounds

She finally sleeps.
I check her breathing.
I reposition myself for maximum contact.
My whole body wrapped around her like a warm, squishy life vest.

And even though I’m tired, I stay awake just a little longer.
Because she made it through another day.

And I was here for all of it.

—

Love,
Mojo 🐾
(Unlicensed, unpaid, and undefeated)

Mojo and the Mess