Mojo and the Mess

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Dad’s Biggest Competition

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izzypwbmma

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Hi friends, it’s me, Mojo. 🐾

So let’s just clear the air: yes, Mom married Dad. Yes, he puts a ring on her finger, gives her shots, drives her to appointments, and does all the “husband stuff.” Cute. Adorable. But let’s be honest—when it comes to who Mom really belongs to? The answer is obvious. Me.

Here’s my case:

Prime Real Estate: At night, Dad thinks he gets to sleep next to Mom. Wrong. That’s my spot. I wedge myself in between them like a furry bodyguard, and Dad ends up clinging to the mattress edge. If anyone here is “the other man,” it’s him. First Responder: Mom sighs, groans, or moves a little funny? I’m on it. Paw on her arm, full attention. Meanwhile Dad’s still fumbling with the remote. Amateur. Gift Economy: Dad buys flowers. I bring Mom the real treasures—half-chewed toys, lint from under the couch, and the occasional mysterious crumb. If that’s not love, what is? Spa Services: Forget couples massages. I offer unlimited face licks, paw pats, and 24/7 snuggles. No appointment necessary. Emotional Support: When Mom cries, I don’t say “everything will be okay.” I just sit on her chest like a weighted beanbag with ears. That’s the good stuff.

Look, Dad’s great. He pays the bills, he makes the food, he even scratches behind my ears sometimes. But if you ask Mom who really has her heart? Let’s just say Dad’s competing in the Olympics, and I’ve already won the gold medal.

—Mojo

One response to “Dad’s Biggest Competition”

  1. mshibdonssciencelab Avatar
    mshibdonssciencelab

    Sir Mojo, you are the bomb! Hang in there Pete, he has to sleep sometime. And then you can change places with the Prince!
    hugs to all🩵🩷🩵

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Hello,

I’m Izzy

Welcome to mojo and the mess, This isn’t the blog I ever expected to write — but it’s the one I needed.

I’m Izzy, a twenty-something living (and dying) with terminal cancer, navigating the messy, heartbreaking, unexpectedly beautiful in-between. Here, you’ll find raw reflections, real talk, dog snuggles (shoutout to Mojo), and the unfiltered truth about what it’s like to face the end of your life before it really got going.

This space is for the ones who’ve felt forgotten, the ones who don’t know what to say, and the ones who are still holding on. It’s not always pretty, but it’s always honest.

Thanks for being here. You’re part of the mess now — and I mean that in the best way.

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