A Luna Friday Takeover
Content Notes
Medical testing, IV attempts, chronic illness, extreme cold and weather-related access limitations, illness/sniffles, grief including grief for places, fire affecting a beloved small business, emotional fatigue.
Hello.
Yes, you.
You can come in. I already checked. You’re safe.
This is the Crippled Cryptid.
A place where bodies have opinions, days don’t always cooperate, and rest is not optional.
I’m Luna Bean.
Medical alert service dog.
Professional nap enforcer.
Australian Cattle Dog with strong feelings and extremely sensitive toebeans.
My job is to keep my Mama, Sky, alive and upright.
My secondary job is attitude.
Usually, Sky does the talking around here.
But it’s Friday.
Friday is when I take the mic, steal the blankets, and tell the truth from bed-level.
So, settle in.
Try not to move too fast.
I’m watching.
This week was… a lot.
You’ll hear Sky’s version tomorrow during the Saturday health update, but today is my report. The important one. The one with supervision.
Wednesday did not go according to plan.
I could tell early. The cold had teeth.
We were supposed to go to a doctor’s appointment. A big one. The kind where humans wear brave faces and bring paperwork. Normally, I go too. I am very good in medical offices. I tuck myself in close, listen carefully, and tell Mama when their body starts whispering before it starts shouting.
But this time, I stayed home.
Not because I wasn’t allowed.
Because winter in Illinois has chosen violence.
I do not like the cold.
The cold hurts Mama.
The cold hurts my feet.
We’ve been doing very fast outside trips. Sniff, business, retreat. Even with paw balm, coats, sweaters, and all the human worry layered on top, this is the kind of cold where I start limping within seconds.
Before anyone starts thinking my people don’t love me enough to buy dog boots, let me be clear.
They tried.
I rejected them.
With my whole soul.
I will not wear them.
So, we do what keeps us safe instead. Short trips. Warm blankets. Inside games. Love over aesthetics.
That’s how this family works.
And yes, I am still allowed to have my ball.
Inside.
Where it is warm.
This is called compromise.
I want to say this clearly, because humans on the internet get strange ideas.
I am a service dog even when I stay home.
Sometimes staying home is the safest, smartest choice for both of us. Extreme cold hurts my feet. It hurts Mama’s body. No task is worth injury.
My job is not to be everywhere.
My job is to help my human survive.
That includes rest days.
Weather days.
Days where the risk is higher than the reward.
Working dogs are still dogs.
Loving your service dog sometimes means saying, “Not today.”
And that’s okay.
We deserve days off too.
Sometimes access fails us, even when the law is on our side, and we make the safest choice we can with the options we’re given.
Mama and M&M still have the sniffles.
M&M is improving. Mama is… not.
I have noticed. I always notice.
She says it could just be anxiety.
I say the cold might finally be catching up to her.
There may be Buckley’s in Sky’s future.
I disapprove of the smell.
She disapproves of the taste.
Now.
The PET scan.
They left without me. I was unhappy about this. I expressed my displeasure by staring at the door like a poor, sad, Victorian orphan.
They came back hours later.
Mama was wrapped in ACE bandages like clingwrap leftovers someone forgot to label. Eight attempts. Eight sticks. Very kind humans. Very stubborn veins.
No test.
I inspected everything. I sniffed the bandages. I supervised the recovery. I decided Mama was allowed to rest but not allowed to spiral.
And not allowed to do dishes.
One of the medical humans told M&M that Mama could have coffee when they got home. The good coffee. Death Wish coffee. Mama says it’s one of the best ones.
Instead, she made chocolate-covered strawberry coffee. It smelled good.
I did not get to have coffee.
This was important information.
Coffee was obtained.
M&M also made tempura shrimp. We watched Fallout in bed. I stayed under the heated blanket and snuggled Mama, which is my throne.
This is what care looks like sometimes.
Not cures.
Just staying.
Mama is now waiting to hear back from cardiology about next steps. Maybe a reschedule. Maybe a different test. Bodies are unpredictable like that.
The office does allow service dogs. That matters. If the weather and transportation had cooperated, I would have gone too. They know about me. They like me. As they should.
Since I didn’t get to go, Mama’s Build-A-Bear, Greggy (after Greg House from House M.D.), went in my place. We love Greggy. He has scrubs, booties, and is holding an x-ray with a heart.
Greggy is very important.
Now for the part that made the house feel different.
Sad.
Over the weekend, my people learned that my favorite place in the entire world, besides this bed, had a fire.
Reese’s Barkery.
The place where my nails get clipped.
Where my food comes from.
Where my treats are made.
Where the peanut butter pies are born.
I don’t know what a fire is.
But I know my people were sad.
And when they’re sad, I sit closer.
Everyone is okay. No one was hurt. That matters more than anything else, even though the treats are very important.
They have a temporary location. They’re opening another store farther away. Transportation makes things complicated right now, but we’re holding hope carefully. Like glass. Like something that survived heat.
There’s something else I need to say.
Because this grief has layers.
Reese’s Barkery wasn’t just a store.
It was routine.
It was care.
It was a place where I was known.
Where the nail clip lady would say, “Hi Luna, baby, have you been a good girl?”
It was also the last place Bear ever went to get his nails clipped.
Even though he didn’t like nail clips.
She would still tell him, “Hi old man, how’re we doing today, baby?” in the nicest voice.
Bear doesn’t live here anymore.
But that memory does.
We miss him every day.
Knowing the building itself is gone, that it can’t hold that memory anymore, hurts in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived in a body where places matter.
Disabled lives don’t get to be casual about places.
Some places become infrastructure.
They become safety.
They become continuity.
We grieve people.
We grieve animals.
And sometimes we grieve the places that helped keep us alive.
That grief still counts.
Mama also had to skip the CT scan on Wednesday. Once everything lined up on paper, real life stepped in. By the time we knew the PET scan wasn’t happening, it would have been too late anyway.
Sometimes tests don’t happen.
Sometimes the reason is just… veins.
Bad ones.
We don’t always like the reasons.
But they’re still real.
For anyone else navigating extreme weather with a working dog: it’s okay to adapt. Shorter outings. Indoor enrichment. Extra rest. Safety over appearances.
Good handling isn’t about proving anything.
It’s about listening.
If today was heavy, you didn’t carry it alone.
If today was quiet, I hope it stayed gentle.
If you’re here, you belong here.
I love you.
You should say it back.
I’ll know if you don’t.
Now stay warm. Drink water. Sit down if you need to.
Throw the ball tomorrow, when the sun is kinder.
I’m watching.
But I’m also right here.
–Luna 🐾
(on behalf of Sky)
© The Crippled Cryptid
Disability, honesty, and a little chaos.
🔗 https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa
There is never pressure to donate. Staying counts.
If you’d like to support the long road toward stability and mobility:
💜 https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-skys-journey-to-health-and-mobility
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