He wasn’t broken. He was a good dog. Well, no, it’s okay. He’s still a good dog.
What I mean is, he is a sweet dog. He always came home. He was never aggressive. He never peed on anything in the house. In fact, I think he’d let his bladder burst first. (Ew, I know). He never tried to get intimate with anyone’s legs.
But, I got a girl dog. And she matured sooner than expected. And hadn’t been fixed. So, I decided to “fix” them both. Him, first. Her, in a month or so. When she’s not still maturing all over the place.
I drive the dog to the vet. It’s an hour away, but takes like an hour and forty-five minutes since I go slow so as not to alarm him. I talked to him the whole way. And not like, “Yes, well, this is going to be a lovely morning, I believe.” No, it was things like:
- “I promise, after this, we’re going to treat you like a king. Totally.”
- “Just think, things are going to be better after this. Well, not immediately after this. This is going to suck. But, this is like the first step in things being better. Just think of it that way.”
And let me reiterate: he’s a dog. He has no idea what I’m saying. Likely, my voice was comforting. But, really? He doesn’t care if it’s the first step. He cares that those people at the place with all the cool smells castrated him. And he’s sore. Actually, I’ve read that dogs live in the now, so he probably doesn’t even remember he used to be… more masculine. Down there. He just knows it doesn’t feel good. Probably.
Boy, am I losing the trail of this story.
The point is, he’s fixed. And I’m the crazy dog lady.