This was my Tuesday: taking my poor puppy to the vet, waiting anxiously to hear the results of his surgery, picking him up from the vet and tending to him in his wobbly, crying & drugged-out-of-his-eyeballs state. He’s had enough sedatives and painkillers to stop full-out dog-crying as he was when he first got home from the vet (and when he was in the kennel in the vet’s office — I could hear his pitiful cries down the hallway for at least 10 minutes while his prescriptions were filled) and has now lapsed into a combination of snores, whimpers and wuffs that fade into silence when someone is petting him or cuddling him. The droopiness of his eyes now rivals that of a basset hound.
This whole procedure is assuredly worse for him than it is for me — I don’t have any sutures, just a vet bill — but damn it, it’s 2am and I’m tearing up a bit while sitting with him. There is something extraordinarily tragic about a dog wearing a cone that can’t even get out of his dog-bed for a tasty chicken dinner.