It is a long day without Aggie. She is not here to play. She is not here to read.
The phone rings. I jump up. Mommy nods. “Hello?” I say. “The surgery is over,” the vet says. “Aggie did well. She is resting.”
“Thank you!” I say. I put on my pajamas. I brush my teeth. I climb into bed.
“But it’s only 4 o’clock,” Mommy says. I smile big. “If I go to sleep, then tomorrow will come. Tomorrow, Aggie will come home.”
“Let’s make popcorn,” Mommy says. She picks a movie from the shelf. It is a good one—but my lap is empty. My bed is empty, too. I miss Aggie. I know Aggie misses me. She has never had a sleepover before.
Finally tomorrow comes. It is time to go to the vet. I can’t wait to see Aggie. She will run and jump. She will circle my legs. She will play chase.
But when we get to the vet, Aggie does not play. Aggie just lies down. She is lying down with a big lampshade on her head.
“Aggie will have to be quiet,” the vet says. “She has stitches.”
Aggie cannot run. She cannot play. She must rest. “Bring her back in two weeks, and I will take the stitches out,” says the vet.
At home, Aggie looks sad. “I am sorry you have to be a lamp-head, Aggie,” I say. “But you have stitches. You cannot scratch. You cannot lick. And you cannot bite your stitches.
“Hmph,” Aggie says. Two weeks is a really long time.