The day after Max’s surgery, he wouldn’t look at me.
I tried treats. I tried the baby voice. I even brought out the forbidden squeaky toy — nothing.
He just sat by the back door, face pressed against the glass, the giant plastic cone around his neck turning him into a very sad satellite dish.
It was a minor procedure — nothing serious. But to Max, it was the end of his freedom. No running. No jumping. No stairs. And definitely no licking.
The vet called it a recovery period.
Max called it betrayal.
By Day 3, he’d started doing this dramatic sigh every time I walked into the room.
He’d flop over like a heartbroken Victorian poet, cone bumping the floor with a hollow thunk.
It was funny. Until it wasn’t.
Because Max didn’t just stop playing — he stopped being Max.
He didn’t bark at the neighbor’s cat.
He didn’t nudge me for couch cuddles.
He just… withdrew.
So I did what any guilty dog parent does — I made amends.
I turned the living room into a floor-level recovery lounge. I ordered him a low-profile orthopedic dog cushion so he could sprawl without bumping the cone into everything.
And I laid beside him with a bowl of ice chips and two slices of turkey — one for each of us.
We watched nature documentaries. We stared out the window.
We did nothing — together.
By Day 6, he wagged when I walked in.
By Day 9, he brought me his toy, dragging the cone along like a stubborn satellite on wheels.
And on Day 12, the cone came off.
We celebrated with a slow walk around the block. He sniffed every mailbox like it was a long-lost friend. The world had returned — and so had Max.
Turns out, the hardest part of recovery isn’t the surgery.
It’s the waiting.
And sometimes, the only cure is showing up — quietly, patiently, without expecting anything in return.
Especially when your best friend is wearing a plastic cone and the weight of the world.