This weekend was an extremely traumatic one for me, my husband, and especially, my little alien dog. This Friday he had “The Operation”. I’ve been living with my husband griping and shooting me dirty looks for a couple of days now. He winces whenever he sees the dog walk gingerly along.
Although he had the procedure on Friday, Chewbacca wasn’t allowed to come home until Saturday. I had to work early Saturday morning and I had dropped him off early on Friday, thus I went over 24 hours without seeing my little guy.
While waiting for him to come home I contemplated the usual doubts:
Do we really know enough about the health benefits to do this to dogs?
What do we know about dog balls, anyway?
See that? I said balls…huh…huh…huh…
I’m making puns on the level of a five year old. Greeaatttt.
I want to believe the ladies at the vets’ office and the Vet when they say it will be better for his health. I want to believe it may help with his recently developed prostrate problems and decrease his chances of cancer. I want to believe this, yet I also worry that I’ve needlessly caused him horrible pain, suffering, and loss of doggie street cred.
I love my dog dearly. He follows me around like a devoted sidekick. I’m his favorite person and the thought of harming his amazing personality dismays me. He sings with me and cavorts around on the floor when I hit the high notes.
From the moment he found us I loved him.
While visiting friends for a New Year’s party quite a few years back, we were sitting on the back patio talking and drinking when someone came around saying that we all needed to take a look at this weird cat/dog thing on the front porch. Another friend popped to the front and came back carrying a big ball of fur. This ball of fur turned out to be one very frightened Pekingese. We offered him food and water, but he wouldn’t eat. Later, I was to discover that fireworks induce pure terror in the dog.
At one point during the night, the dog disappeared. After a brief search we found him wedged so tightly under the shed that he couldn’t get back out. Our friend who owned the house had to crawl under and pull him loose.
At this point, I quickly marshaled my forces and carried out my attack. I blithely suggested to my husband that for his safety the dog should stay in the back of our car. You see, I had fallen in love with the dog. I was determined to win the war and take home the spoils despite my husband’s edict that we should remain a dog free zone. Victory would be mine! With a minimum of fuss the dog made it into our car. Perhaps, my husband was also harboring a secret love for the mutt?
Needlessly to say at the end of the night, the dog accompanied us home. Despite due diligence on my part, the owners could never be located and the dog had no collar or microchip.
As far as I can see, Chewbacca remains the same, goofy, lying around on his back, snoring with his tongue hanging out dog that he was before “The Operation”.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
My husband contemplates forgiving me some day.
I curl up on the floor to pet my little guy as he slowly waddles toward me.