I called the Hottie this morning to tell him that our daughter was ready to be picked up.
I confused him slightly. I might have even set off a surge of adrenaline through his veins. “Isn’t it a little early to be going into labor?”
No, your dog! Who else would I be talking about?
“Ummm . . . how about my daughter that is growing in your belly?”
Right . . . gotta get used to that!
Many of you who follow me on Twitter know that our dog had surgery yesterday.
It turns out our faithful, vacuum-like dog who was also our training specimen to prepare us for parenthood, had a mast cell tumor growing on her thigh. The options were to leave it alone, only to have it multiply in size quite rapidly, or remove the tumor while it remained somewhat local.
Wanting to be good stewards of God’s creation and appreciating the unique qualities that Mussoorie brings to our family life, we felt that it was only right to give it a shot and go ahead with the surgery.
Poor thing. She is home now, after a lonely night’s stay at the doggy hospital. I have never seen her so anxious to get somewhere when I picked her up – that somewhere was anywhere but the hospital.
Now, she is snoring soundly -- resting on her blue head pillow that is gentler than the plastic Elizabethan collar she was dressed in when I picked her up.
I know. She’s a dog. But she is our dog.
Somehow I am supposed to keep her calm. Right. She lives with three boys. She’s a lion hunter. She is ALWAYS searching for food.
I think we will change her name from Rhodesian Ridgeback to Rhodesian Ridgeleg.
Poor thing.
