Rosie Up North with us. Yes, those stories are yet to come.
Gulp. Yes. It's spay day.
Rosie is our first female dog. The boys, well, snipping them was no big problem. Toby had his surgery done when he was five years old (I was a bad, ignorant dog-owner in those years) and Doug sent him a get-well card with a McDonald's Gift Card inside. (I showed Toby the cards, ate the McDonalds myself.)
Boscoe had his done at the traditional six-month mark. Riley had his done before we adopted him; the shelter wouldn't let us take him home until he'd been snipped.
But Rosie--gack. This is surgery. Dr. J explained it to me over the phone last week when we were setting up the appointment, and hearing things like "three-to-four-inch incision" and "ten days to two weeks recovery" did not make me feel any better. Even when he said he doesn't do the whip stitch (one long suture) but individual stitches to ensure against hernias developing--well, all this did was fill me with fear. Hernia? She might get a hernia?
And of course this comes at a time when she has been particularly sweet, which makes it seem particularly cruel. "You've been so good! So we're going to deny you of your breakfast, inflict major surgery on you, and make you wear a conehead while you are woozing around in pain! Good Girl!"
We had our second obedience class on Tuesday night, and she was so, so, so good. Toward the end of class, when she is exhausted and full of treats and needs to go relieve herself and is losing concentration, we could tell she was teetering on the verge of becoming a wolverine. And instead, she got quiet. First time. She just snuggled with Doug and behaved herself. It was great to see.
Yesterday morning when I took her around the lake I made her SIT and WAIT every time a person or a dog passed, and she did, each time. At the very end of the walk, two old guys out for their morning constitutional stopped to chat. I made her sit. They yakked. And yakked. Rosie stirred. I made her sit. They yakked. And yakked. Rosie stirred. I made her sit. And this time--she lay down. Just lay down, as though she was thinking, "OK, this is going to be a while, might as well get comfortable."
And she stayed in that down-stay until we were done talking--probably another five or ten minutes.
She is as good as gold!
Right now it's raining hard. She is sleeping in her crate. She has had no breakfast. In five minutes, Doug will drop her off at the vet and we can't pick her up until tomorrow.
And to say that I am dreading the surgery, and the days afterwards, is not only an understatement but is also quite obvious to you all. I'm a softie. I'm a catastrophizer. I wish today were over and she were back in her crate, resting in that goddamn conehead, getting better.