The veterinarian, the very one who had identified me less than a week before, entered the pen when he saw that I was awake. He felt my pulse, looked at my eyes carefully, and talked to me in a comforting voice.
"Is it Pal?" he asked, and when I sighed, he tried again. "Keeper?"
At the sound of my true name, Keeper, I blinked and tried to lift my head. The doctor stroked my fur gently. "You got pretty badly banged up," he told me. The information was unnecessary. I could feel it. It was excruciatingly painful just to move.
"But you're going to be okay," he said, still stroking my neck. "You're going to heal. And," he added, "you're a hero. You saved the little girl. You saved Emily."
At the sound of that precious name, I lifted my head high, despite the pain. The doctor smiled. "She's in the other room, waiting to see you," he said. "They all are. Your whole family, even that female who looks so much like you. What's her name? Sal?"
I whimpered a bit and rested my head on the blanket again. I would never call her Sal. But I guessed all humans would, and I would have to accept that.
I hoped my family hadn't brought Bert and Ernie with them. I needed commiseration, but not the land of saccharine faux sympathy I knew the cats would delight in providing.
"Okay, Keeper," the doctor went on, "I'm going to let them come in for a little visit. You take it easy, though. Don't try to stand up. You're going to have a tough time balancing for a while. But you'll adjust. It won't take long. Before you know it, you'll be home again and as good as new."
Then he hesitated. "Well, maybe not as good as new, Keeper. You'll be different. But you're still a healthy, heroic dog. I want you to remember that."
Then, as he paused before getting to his feet, he explained the specific nature of my terrible injury. The shock was almost overwhelming. My thoughts were confused, and I began to take deep breaths, trying to control myself and get my bearings again.
A poem, I thought. I must write a poem now, to help me through this.
But it was impossible. Even poetry was gone from me now. I lay there suffering, not from my wounds but from the terrible new knowledge of my loss, and heard him tell my family to come in.
I had been brave in the presence of the doctor, I think; and in the embrace of my human family, who had not brought the cats, I continued to maintain an admirably proud and stoic pose. I accepted their pats and kisses and their sympathy with dignity and affection.
But finally, in the privacy of my visit with my sister (for my human family had nudged her into my pen and then tactfully retreated, leaving us alone together), I broke down. At first, holding my head erect to look at the loving, sympathetic gaze of my homely but faithful sibling, I tried to maintain a devil-may-care attitude.
"Forward my feet!" I declaimed. "Upright my—"
But I lost control then, and howled with grief.
"Wispy," I wailed, "I have lost my glorious tail!"
She nuzzled my neck and licked my chin for comfort.
"You still have a glorious tale," she reminded me gently. "Why don't you tell it?"
And so I have.