Someone has been sad in the H house.
Okay. A lot of us have been sad around these parts. Like, scary ugly crying for over 24 hours kind of sad. A sadness that isn't easily covered up and, therefore, two year olds play the part of mother and wipe away tears, rest their head on shoulders and say things like, "No more tears."
This same two year old has also turned into a mother hen to the saddest member of the group and in between bossing her chickadee around and forcing games of chase-me-on-my-trike-or-I'll-run-you-over-and-pull-your-tail, she's hugging, loving and smothering her big chick back to health.
It's been almost two weeks since our family was backed into a dark corner and asked to choose. On the menu: a) put Miya to sleep or b) elect to have a very expensive spinal surgery and have a 95% chance that we'll get to watch Miya walk, run, and love again.
We chose the latter.
And, indeed, she is walking, running and loving once again. A miracle of sorts, considering almost two weeks ago she was paralyzed.
As for Marley, she's still sad. The glimmer in her eyes is lost and she sulks around the kennel Miya is confined to. She doesn't understand why Miya can't come out and play, she's confused as to why her sister's gait resembles a drunken sailor, and she's certainly jealous of all of the attention, special treats (aka medicine hidden in chicken stew), and coddling furry sister is receiving. As a result, she looks at us with sad eyes, follows me around the house like it's her job, and is acting out like a toddler who is adjusting to a new sibling that's just been brought home from the hospital.
The doctor told us it's going to be a long six-month recovery, but so far Miya's a little four-legged miracle who wags her tail every time we pass by her kennel and is beyond patient with her number one visitor -- who, by the way, loves to visit even after visiting hours are over.
