Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2018-07-05 04:23 pm
cottoncandypink) wrote2018-07-05 04:23 pm
One, it’s awful, and two, she’s a girl
Return to work the next day? Good god, who was ever able to do that? What a joke.
Okay, most people who had this surgery probably did not have to have their lower jaw chopped apart and put back together in three places. Maybe people who didn’t have to do that went back to work the next day. Wilford was not one of those people. He’d taken a month off, and already he was worried it wouldn’t be enough.
Most of the first few days were a blur. He didn’t like the pain killers any more this time than he did the last time a doctor had given them to him. He’d filled the prescription, just in case it got to that point. It did, he thought. Once. But nothing had changed. The damn things still made everything numb and feeling like it was moving at half-speed, without the benefit of making him pass out so he could be unconscious through the worst of it. Thank god for Billy’s care package. That was the only thing getting him through it. A couple drops of Green Dragon in his coffee, and an unending supply of nicotine patches almost made it bearable.
And then there was the dog. Not his dog. The other dog. The one that appeared at the bar, and had somehow now appeared in his living room, eating a sock.
Not sure what else to do, he texted Nichola about it. There’s a dog in here.
It didn’t take long for her to respond. Yes, he’s called Buster and you’ve had him for a very long time..
Idiot woman. Obviously he didn’t mean Buster. Lacking the mental capacity to properly argue, he took a picture of the dog, and debated on if he should get up to rescue his sock. Ultimately, it didn’t seem worth it, so he sent the picture to Nichola.
“Where did you get a puppy?”
It was enormous. Half the size of Buster, at least. And Nichola was standing in the middle of the room, holding it like a giant, squirming baby.
“That thing’s a puppy?” Wilford asked. Enough of the swelling had gone down for Wilford to realise he’d traded one speech problem for another, and at some point over the last week he’d developed a lisp. Good. Fucking. God.
“Sure looks like a puppy. Look at those feet!”
Wilford rolled his eyes as the grown woman standing in his living room started cooing at the dog’s feet. “That’s disgusting,” he grumbled, looking down at Buster. The poor dog didn’t know what was going on, and was starting to cry. It was time to feed him anyway, and that would probably distract him.
“Come on, Bucko. You probably haven’t eaten either,” he said, heading into the kitchen to try to scrounge up enough food for two dogs. He was going to have to order groceries, since the boy wasn’t here to do his shopping for him anymore.
“You’re not calling her that!” Nichola protested, bringing the new dog into the kitchen.
“Why not?” There was some chicken in the fridge that Wilford couldn’t eat right now. The dogs could have that.
“One, it’s awful, and two, she’s a girl,” Nichola argued.
Wilford grumbled. “I didn’t look that hard.” He tossed an egg down at Buster, so it could bounce off his face before splatting onto the floor. Nichola put the other one down, and Wilford tossed an egg for that dog too. He threw it short, because he knew this one wouldn’t be able to catch it yet (there was still hope that Buster might one day learn), but as it splatted on the floor the puppy yelped angrily at it and stumbled backwards. She didn’t seem to want anything to do with the egg, so Buster ate that one too.
“Call her Bailey, if you want to stick with the theme,” Nichola said, crouching down to soothe the puppy.
“Why Bailey?” Wilford asked.
Nichola shrugged. “Why not?”
Wilford found another plate for the puppy to eat, since he didn’t trust Buster to do anything other than inhale what was put in front of him. He diced up the chicken and put it on the plates to cool down, and for good measure grabbed another egg out of the fridge, this time cracking it over the chicken on one of the plates. The puppy probably didn’t know what to do with the shell, and Wilford wasn’t in the mood to deal with getting her to try to eat it, so into the trash it went.
He put both plates down onto the floor a few feet from one another, and Buster went nuts. There was more food on the floor than he knew what to do with, and immediately tried to figure out how to eat off of both plates at the same time. Wilford sighed at the display.
Great. This was his life now, wasn’t it? He picked up Buster’s plate and grabbed the dog by his collar. Seeing where Wilford was already headed, Nichola stepped over and opened the patio door. Wilford put Buster’s plate in the shade and shoved the dog outside, struggling to shut the door without getting Buster caught in it.
At least the puppy knew what to do about chicken.
Okay, most people who had this surgery probably did not have to have their lower jaw chopped apart and put back together in three places. Maybe people who didn’t have to do that went back to work the next day. Wilford was not one of those people. He’d taken a month off, and already he was worried it wouldn’t be enough.
Most of the first few days were a blur. He didn’t like the pain killers any more this time than he did the last time a doctor had given them to him. He’d filled the prescription, just in case it got to that point. It did, he thought. Once. But nothing had changed. The damn things still made everything numb and feeling like it was moving at half-speed, without the benefit of making him pass out so he could be unconscious through the worst of it. Thank god for Billy’s care package. That was the only thing getting him through it. A couple drops of Green Dragon in his coffee, and an unending supply of nicotine patches almost made it bearable.
And then there was the dog. Not his dog. The other dog. The one that appeared at the bar, and had somehow now appeared in his living room, eating a sock.
Not sure what else to do, he texted Nichola about it. There’s a dog in here.
It didn’t take long for her to respond. Yes, he’s called Buster and you’ve had him for a very long time..
Idiot woman. Obviously he didn’t mean Buster. Lacking the mental capacity to properly argue, he took a picture of the dog, and debated on if he should get up to rescue his sock. Ultimately, it didn’t seem worth it, so he sent the picture to Nichola.
“Where did you get a puppy?”
It was enormous. Half the size of Buster, at least. And Nichola was standing in the middle of the room, holding it like a giant, squirming baby.
“That thing’s a puppy?” Wilford asked. Enough of the swelling had gone down for Wilford to realise he’d traded one speech problem for another, and at some point over the last week he’d developed a lisp. Good. Fucking. God.
“Sure looks like a puppy. Look at those feet!”
Wilford rolled his eyes as the grown woman standing in his living room started cooing at the dog’s feet. “That’s disgusting,” he grumbled, looking down at Buster. The poor dog didn’t know what was going on, and was starting to cry. It was time to feed him anyway, and that would probably distract him.
“Come on, Bucko. You probably haven’t eaten either,” he said, heading into the kitchen to try to scrounge up enough food for two dogs. He was going to have to order groceries, since the boy wasn’t here to do his shopping for him anymore.
“You’re not calling her that!” Nichola protested, bringing the new dog into the kitchen.
“Why not?” There was some chicken in the fridge that Wilford couldn’t eat right now. The dogs could have that.
“One, it’s awful, and two, she’s a girl,” Nichola argued.
Wilford grumbled. “I didn’t look that hard.” He tossed an egg down at Buster, so it could bounce off his face before splatting onto the floor. Nichola put the other one down, and Wilford tossed an egg for that dog too. He threw it short, because he knew this one wouldn’t be able to catch it yet (there was still hope that Buster might one day learn), but as it splatted on the floor the puppy yelped angrily at it and stumbled backwards. She didn’t seem to want anything to do with the egg, so Buster ate that one too.
“Call her Bailey, if you want to stick with the theme,” Nichola said, crouching down to soothe the puppy.
“Why Bailey?” Wilford asked.
Nichola shrugged. “Why not?”
Wilford found another plate for the puppy to eat, since he didn’t trust Buster to do anything other than inhale what was put in front of him. He diced up the chicken and put it on the plates to cool down, and for good measure grabbed another egg out of the fridge, this time cracking it over the chicken on one of the plates. The puppy probably didn’t know what to do with the shell, and Wilford wasn’t in the mood to deal with getting her to try to eat it, so into the trash it went.
He put both plates down onto the floor a few feet from one another, and Buster went nuts. There was more food on the floor than he knew what to do with, and immediately tried to figure out how to eat off of both plates at the same time. Wilford sighed at the display.
Great. This was his life now, wasn’t it? He picked up Buster’s plate and grabbed the dog by his collar. Seeing where Wilford was already headed, Nichola stepped over and opened the patio door. Wilford put Buster’s plate in the shade and shoved the dog outside, struggling to shut the door without getting Buster caught in it.
At least the puppy knew what to do about chicken.