And, boy, is he steaming mad. I’d say “hopping mad,” but it was on the left hind leg and he ain’t hopping nowhere.
A few years back, Theo had the same surgery on his right hind knee tendon. When we brought him home from that date with destiny, he bit the watch off my wrist. (A snazzy Joan Rivers number.) Then sat indignant in the back yard looking away from us for six hours. The next day he held his pee in until 5 p.m. He’s one rough and tough terrier.
Tonight, he’s positively mellow by comparison. And I, of course, refrained from wearing a watch while near him. (I’m slow, but I do learn a thing or two along the meandering path of my life.)
I can just imagine him complaining to his canine friends: “You’re not gonna believe it, Spot and Rover. They dropped me off at this torture chamber where some goons in masks knocked me out, cut me open, and stitched me back together. For the second time! Hurts like a sonofabitch. And now they keep yapping about how much they “love” me. Yeah, right, that’s why they threw me to the wolves who carved me up.”
Poor Theo. At least veterinary medicine keeps up with major painkillers. He’s loaded up on two meds as I write. Sleep it off, my furious little macho hound. I do love you.