 |
|
|
|
|
 |
 |
|
||
 |
 |
|
||
|
||||
 |
|
|||
|
||||
|
||||
Date with the NutcrackerSeptember 23, 2008 9:15 a.m. Today Travvy gets neutered. I delivered him to Michelle's at the appointed time -- between 8:15 and 8:30 -- then proceeded to the Scottish Bakehouse for an almond croissant. Trav wasn't allowed to eat so I figured I shouldn't either. The instructions were no food after 6 p.m. the night before and no water after 10. Usually Trav has supper when we get home from the barn, which these days isn't till after 7 p.m., so I took his food to the barn and fed him on his tether at quarter to six. Of course when we did get home he went straight to his crate, expecting another supper. Sorry, puppy. This morning he scratched at the screen (the dog-proof screen I had put in a couple of weeks ago is holding up nicely) and came bouncing in. As usual, we played on the rug for a couple of minutes while Trav listened for his cue: "Breakfast for the puppy? Go to your crate!" It didn't come. He was confused. Puppy has been known to scavenge the laundry and not-quite-laundry looking for biscuits in pants pockets, so when I went down to the bathroom I left him in his crate, with a cow toe and a couple of toys but without his food dish. He was even more confused. He chewed halfheartedly on the bars and then gave up. We went for a short version of our morning walk. He was on leash (of course) but I kept an eye out as we passed along the back of the West Tisbury School fields because the left-behind wrappers sometimes conceal chips or popcorn or something else edible. (Trav's definition of "edible" is considerably broader than mine.) It hasn't rained for several days, so there were no puddles for him to steal a drink out of. He seemed pretty chipper in spite of it all. At the vet's, I signed a release form and sprang for the $42 pre-op test to make sure he won't have an adverse reaction to the anesthesia. "He's grown," said Michelle, who when I decided against neutering him at four months urged me not to wait till he weighed a hundred pounds. I didn't: this morning he weighed 66.8, about 17 pounds more than he did at the end of July. I'm supposed to call in around noon to see how he's doing. 11:25 a.m. Trav is home. I didn't even get to call in. Elise at Michelle's office called at 10:45 to say that Travvy was ready to come home as long as I was around to watch him. You bet, said I. The reason for his early discharge was apparent as soon as I walked through the door and heard plaintive malamute wailing from the next room. The facility is not large; anyone might be forgiven for not wanting to work, talk, or think with that going on. He's got an E-collar on -- that's "E" for Elizabethan, not "e" for electronic -- because as soon as he came out from under he went straight for his incision. Getting him into the truck took some maneuvering; the little parking area was crowded so I parked on the dirt road with the passenger-side door about a foot from the trees, which meant lifting him and his cowl into the driver's seat with its protruding steering wheel, hoping all the while that I wasn't jostling his incision and making him hurt. We made it. He's now out on the deck, resting. 8:40 p.m. Trav in his E-collar looks like the charming wastrel who got shanghaied into appearing in the Christmas pageant, halo and all, or maybe he's the wolf dolled up in Grandma's nightcap. He is utterly not thrilled with this thing. He can't judge distances to get through doors or up stairs without knocking into hard surfaces. He can't steal laundry from the hamper or catalogues off the magazine rack. He did manage to slither from his seat in the pickup to the back of the cab, and then to squeeze between the back of my seat and the door when we got home. Damn E-collar is making me crazy. Every time I take it off, it takes half an hour to get it back on. They ought to print assembly/reassembly instructions on the side of these things. Short version is that Trav seems to be doing OK. "Your pet may remain groggy for 12 hours following anesthesis," say the written instructions I got from my vet. Twelve hours? Make that two, max. The vet's instructions also said he could have a light supper, and "Don't worry if he doesn't eat." Hah. I gave him his usual supper, but he clearly thought he should have had all the kibble he'd missed in the previous 24 hours. I didn't go that far, but I did give him another half cup, which he gobbled down PDQ. Right now he's chewing on the tab that protrudes from the E-collar. Right. The charming wastrel is sneaking a couple of cigs while the Wise Men rehearse their entrance. "Restrict exercise for 10–14 days." Oh brother.
|
|
|||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
 |
|
|||
 |
|
|||
Home - Writing - Editing - About Susanna - Bloggery - Articles - Poems - Contact Copyright ©
Susanna J. Sturgis. All rights reserved. |
||||