I don’t mean to imply that the Lord & Master has no future in the nursing profession – human or canine – but after one day in his care our dog Theo Fannybrice practially had a nervous breakdown. And we’re talking about a dog who’s so macho he refused to get into the carrier post-surgery. Instead, he heroically limped to the car.
The next day I toodled off to buy gold and silver as usual. By day’s end the L&M began peppering me with increasingly frantic phone calls.
“You’d better get here. He’s crying.” Just what I don’t want to hear while I’m waiting on yet another Oriental loaded down with 24K baubles.
“Of course he’s crying. He’s in pain. Don’t worry,” I soothed.
Here’s what I found:
“Honey, where are Theo’s stitches.”
Silence. My bigger half was completely clueless that our pooch had made a craft project out of removing his own stitches. That’d make me cry, too.
But wait, there’s more!
“Are you aware you two are sitting in a pool of his pee?” I gingerly inquired.
Whereupon my normally mild mannered spouse launched into an impromptu performance of his long running hit one-man show, I Hate My Life. At full volume.
I banished him from the room while I stripped off the wet blankets and sheets, dried the fitted sheet with a hair dryer, and reassured the actual patient that everything would be fine.
Yes, it’s always been my dream to return home from a full day of dealing with the public and clean up a veritable lake of dog pee.
By the next morning, the vet had stapled Theo’s leg back together.
All in all, he’s been a real trouper. The staples are gone, he’s back with his pack at Fort Funston, and all’s right in his doggy world.
My husband’s busy reading, writing, grading papers, and otherwise sticking to his professorial duties.