Brody, my half-Corgi male 4-year-old dog, had a fairly serious surgery Monday, and it has been a learning week.
He was born with a fairly small opening in the abdomen which became large enough for a little gut to pooch through about a month ago, so he had the hernia surgery he needed on Monday. Fortunately, I've had him on a slight diet in expectation of this and he was down from 29 to 27 pounds, which helps when you're stretching flesh to cover formerly open territory.
He was supposed to be crated. If they make crates with doors for handicapped persons, the vet didn't know about it, and I turned out to be unable to secure the door, letting him stagger out. So he's spent the week in a 5x5 foot bathroom. First night he cried in the middle of the night and got more meds. He was hurting. For the next two days he endured with these sad eyes that asked me repeatedly why I was doing this to him. He has a neck cone too, of course. Thursday he finally barked once and Friday he wagged his tail and charged to the end of the leash. His eyes sparkle again. He's feeling much better that he really is, and now he's getting pushy about confinement. Fortunately, he's not a whiner or barker indoors.
Actually, the bathroom has worked well for his personality, because he has a deep need for touch, ear rubs and back rubs. The crate would have allowed much less of that. I have learned more about his sweetness, and despite his Corgi abilities, his generally poor thinking skills. I have been glad for solitude as I have relieved my impatience at times with language I hope my granddaughters never hear me say. At least, not in such quantity.
Pills have meant a lot of peanut butter-covered tramadol, antibiotic, and such. Gracie has been somewhat upset with all his largess, never mind that he has to stay in the bathroom. She has cuddled more with me for whatever reason, opportunity being one. Brody doesn't always share his owner well.
I notice I've been more tired--yes, a little more work, but I think it's knowing the dog was actually hurting for a few days. I have friends who have recently lost family members, are in severe pain awaiting surgery themselves, or dealing with their own difficult survival. Don't think I've mentioned dog's surgery to most people I know. In the scheme of things, it's rather minor. It matters to me, and that's enough.
I was thinking about that this week. It's part of the fabric of my current reality, and as such, worth my attention. I've gotten quite a bit done anyway the last few days--he's found out how to sleep on that cone, and the medicine means he sleeps deeply. I type, or cook, or do a number of things, and he is content for now to sleep nearby. Gracie sprawls nearby as well, and at time the floor is littered with Dead Dogs Sleeping, usually just where I need to go next.
Stitches come out next Thursday--don't know how long he retains the cone, or the leash to keep him from dashing around the yard. I do love to watch these two play chase at top speed when both are in good shape. And that time will be here soon.
Funny old routines that make up our daily lives and fill the shape of them with action and feelings. After decades of living, sometimes we are doing something that seems quite solitary to anyone watching, but has years of familiarity and memories attached to what we do. I think this is the real stuff of our days, often the meaning we find as we drift away to sleep.
It has been a good day. I hope that new loaf of fruit bread turns out as good as it smells. Nuts, cranberry sauce and orange marmalade with cinnamon and nutmeg.
Not necessarily to the dog's taste, but they would try it, given the chance. Their day has been good as well. They're both softly snoring. Day is done.