The big snip

"I am not ashamed."

 Puppies get neutered all the time (or they should). So, no big deal--right?

The Humane Society wouldn't let us bring Riley home until after they'd neutered him.  With Rosie and with Angus, we had to pay the neutering costs as part of their adoption fees. (And then decided we wanted the surgery done in our own clinic, and so had to pay a second time--the adoption places only work with a few clinics and ours is not among them.)

With Toby and Boscoe we were on our own, but we did it because that's what responsible dog owners do. Although I didn't have Toby neutered until he was five, because I was (as I've mentioned before) a clueless person who had never owned a dog before and didn't know the proper way to do things.

But still. We got it done, for all of them.

So why was I so nervous yesterday?

No good reason. No good reason at all. Angus' procedure is simpler than the one poor Rosie went through six years ago, where they unseamed her from the nave to th' chops, as Shakespeare would say. Angus' incision is less than an inch long. (And actually Rosie's was tiny, too; our vet prides himself on very small incisions.)

But the older I get the less easy I am with creatures I love being hurt in any way, even when it's for their own good. That's a self-important way of saying that I have become a big softie.

Me.

 I asked Doug if he would drop Angus off; I just couldn't bear to leave him there. I would be the hero and pick him up afterwards.

Despite my fretting, all went well. The vet called me just before noon and said Angus was beginning to wake up, all had gone smoothly, and I could pick him up after work. That was when Doug confessed that they had made him sign a Do Not Resuscitate order when he dropped Angus off, in case Angus suffered cardiac arrest on the table.

This news practically gave me cardiac arrest. But Angus was fine. He came out of the back room hopping and jumping, as usual. He was a little glassy-eyed, but other than that didn't seem in pain or even woozy.

The discharge papers included all kinds of cautions: Keep him quiet. No playing. Short walks. Keep the incision clean and dry. No baths. (Baths?) Lots of rest. Have him wear a conehead when you can't keep an eye on him.

For how long? I asked.

Seven to ten days.

Seven to ten days of keeping a puppy quiet? Seven to ten days of keeping this puppy quiet? Seven to ten days of a conehead?

I'm sure they have to say all of that, just like they have to warn against cardiac arrest. But this seemed like overkill.

Angus slept soundly all night, no hint of pain or inappropriate stitches-damaging licking. I took Thursday as a reading day at home, so I could keep an eye on him. I figured he'd be subdued and quiet and tired and maybe unhappy.

But the only thing that made him unhappy was the conehead.

"Is this really necessary?"

He tolerated it, but it's enormous, and he kept bashing into doorways and couldn't figure out how to get into his crate. So I went down the basement and rooted around in some boxes and found the Bite-Not collar that we had gotten years ago for Boscoe.

It holds the neck in such a way that he can't reach back and do any damage. 

Angus accepted it and took a long nap.

I took the collar off for the afternoon walk and then just didn't put it back on again. He's shown no sign at all of missing what he is now, um, missing. If he's in any pain (and he is on rimadyl, twice a day) he's hiding it well. (This is the dog who lets out a blood-curdling shriek if I accidentally step on one of his feet during our walk. He is not stoic.)

Right now he's lounging around almost totally commando: just a flimsy red collar and nothing else.

Tomorrow I'll go back to the newsroom.  We'll put the Bite-Not on him just to be safe, but I'm pretty sure that Angus will be fine.

And of course I will fret about him all day.