So after a sleepless night, trying to not hear Georgia's shivering, Joe and I got up and packed Georgia into Joe's car for her second visit with the vet.
As I saw them off I began getting myself ready for work, yet all I could think about was what the vet would say.
At around 10:30 a.m. I received a call from her.
“So we have Georgia here, and I just don’t like the look of that lump, so I think surgery is going to be necessary.”
My heart sank.
But I quickly agreed with her decision, and then proceeded to feel the onslaught of questions hammer into my brain once again.
Finally, at around 7 p.m., we were able to pick her up and take her home, with orders to bring her back again for a fresh round of fluids and treatment.
The night was rough; Georgia barely let us touch her and she seemed completely out of it. I was nervous not just because I feared hurting her, but I also feared that somehow, when she had gone under the knife, her personality would’ve changed.
The next day, after dropping her off again and another long day of anticipation, my fears were happily abated.
The vet led us back to see her and we were greeted with a super excited, tail-wagging dog. We were given some further instructions, a couple of medications, and, the piece de resistance, a plastic cone to keep her from licking herself.
We were also told to be on the lookout for vomiting or constipation, so for the past few days, we have been following and watching Georgia’s bodily functions. Luckily there was no vomit and in fact, her appetite had become ravenous.
The one thing we still hadn’t seen was her poop. I began to get obsessed. Every time Joe took her out, I’d ask if she pooped. I’d constantly watch her to see if she pooped. I was even hoping to come home to the smell of poop, just so I knew that her bowels were working again.
I was beginning to get sincerely crazy when Joe texted me that, hurray, she pooped!
I haven’t seen the evidence myself, though. So, even tonight, I found myself standing in my pajamas and bathrobe, feet in slippers, standing in my yard at 8:30 at night, watching my lamp-shade wearing dog for the slightest squat. Classy, I know.
Still, it really says something about how my priorities have changed, even just at 27.
As I saw them off I began getting myself ready for work, yet all I could think about was what the vet would say.
At around 10:30 a.m. I received a call from her.
“So we have Georgia here, and I just don’t like the look of that lump, so I think surgery is going to be necessary.”
My heart sank.
But I quickly agreed with her decision, and then proceeded to feel the onslaught of questions hammer into my brain once again.
Finally, at around 7 p.m., we were able to pick her up and take her home, with orders to bring her back again for a fresh round of fluids and treatment.
The night was rough; Georgia barely let us touch her and she seemed completely out of it. I was nervous not just because I feared hurting her, but I also feared that somehow, when she had gone under the knife, her personality would’ve changed.
The next day, after dropping her off again and another long day of anticipation, my fears were happily abated.
The vet led us back to see her and we were greeted with a super excited, tail-wagging dog. We were given some further instructions, a couple of medications, and, the piece de resistance, a plastic cone to keep her from licking herself.
We were also told to be on the lookout for vomiting or constipation, so for the past few days, we have been following and watching Georgia’s bodily functions. Luckily there was no vomit and in fact, her appetite had become ravenous.
The one thing we still hadn’t seen was her poop. I began to get obsessed. Every time Joe took her out, I’d ask if she pooped. I’d constantly watch her to see if she pooped. I was even hoping to come home to the smell of poop, just so I knew that her bowels were working again.
I was beginning to get sincerely crazy when Joe texted me that, hurray, she pooped!
I haven’t seen the evidence myself, though. So, even tonight, I found myself standing in my pajamas and bathrobe, feet in slippers, standing in my yard at 8:30 at night, watching my lamp-shade wearing dog for the slightest squat. Classy, I know.
Still, it really says something about how my priorities have changed, even just at 27.
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