Coney Island

Poor Bear, the cone head. Bear is one of my three dogs. As if any dog who licks their balls, eats poop and gets humped in the side by our other male dog needs any more humiliation, he has to wear one of those cones. He had surgery today to remove a mass on his belly. They sent him home to me while he's still doped up on morphine and he's totally freaking me out.

Have you ever seen a person or animal totally hopped up on pain meds? They look through you not at you. It's kind of scary because with my dog I keep thinking he's going to suddenly go berserk on me. He keeps bumping into people and things. He's sore so he doesn't want to lay down. He just stands around, panting and bumping into stuff. It's sorta funny, but mostly sad.

Luckily the mass is benign, but when I found it I didn't know. I had that whole scenario of telling my kids the dog died and what that would be like. Boy, that can put a person in an emotional tailspin. Dropping him off this morning it was like he knew. He got into the car just fine, but when we arrived at the vet clinic, he didn't want to go in. When it was time for the helper to take him back to the kennels he pulled the old, "sorry lady, my hind legs don't work" deal. He looked at me as if to say, "please don't let them take me! I'll do anything! I'll even quit the balls licking thing, I know that really grosses you out! Pllleeaase!" I had big crocodile tears in my eyes as I drove away.




And now, as I sit here typing he's staring at me with those big, blank, drug hazed eyes. His cone is about the size of a small third world country, and he's panting, panting, panting. Not to complain or anything, well...who am I kidding, I'm a big complainer. BUT, I feel like I have enough responsibility and now this poor cone headed creature needs me and it's about all I can do not to go a little berzerk myself.