Yesterday, I got a taste of my own veterinary medicine. Tiny Dog went under anesthesia for a dental, and I just want to say, vets are not immune to anxiety about their pets having procedures done. Tiny Dog was in the incredibly capable hands of Dr. Brooks, but my worry machinery started up and it was just better if I ran errands at lunch, bringing back kettle chips and Dove chocolate, than staring at my inert, open-mouthed small creature who engulfs me with love every day.
This year she only had two teeth extracted. Previously, six last year, then eight the year before that. She’s a fine example: chihuas have terrible mouths. But now her maw is minty fresh, hooray. I occasionally catch her tonguing the dissolvable sutures in her mouth. You know how it is when you loose a tooth, and your tongue continually fishes around in the socket.
Tiny Dog is exhausted today, spilling over from the big day. I am not sure how she jumped up on the couch to take a nap. Last night she urinated while sitting down; she wasn’t sober, in the least.
I set her outside to go to the bathroom this afternoon, and then five minutes later, heard her faint cries from the kitchen. You have to strain to hear her, but it’s clear: help me. She’s perfectly capable of walking, but I think the expanse of kitchen overwhelmed her, and she felt lost, maybe even psychically.
I helped her sad loose bones up on the couch next to me. I have my headphones on to block out the neighbor’s generator. A tree fell down in a morning monsoon, and wacked out our block’s electricity. I have the windows open to a nice breeze and Atticus is on high alert, protecting our house from passerby dogs. Sheesh. He went through the window, again, last week, a double pane that we had replaced the original infraction. No one was hurt but my irritated heart.