Or dog thy will be done I should say. This is just one of the perils of having a third boy in the form of a dog. Said dog is currently lying in the conservatory wearing a cone, looking at me with big sorry eyes. I feel mean, I felt mean yesterday, I felt mean when I made the decision but nevertheless concluded that he had to be done.
When we brought home this adorable puppy who I could carry with ease under one arm, I had little idea of what would be in store. Although I grew up with a male dog, by the time I was old enough to realise how these things worked, the dog was getting old and such matters were less relevant. I was therefore entering virgin territory. When Rocco was tiny, we talked in very vague terms about perhaps getting him done when he is about one. Whilst we knew he could Father some seriously cute puppies, we also knew that it wasn’t really a practical option.
Dogs grow even faster than children. No sooner was he going out for walks and getting past the stage of looking obviously like a puppy, Rocco started to revel in his sexuality, teddy bears now had a new purpose and he was scarcely six months old. This was only going to get worse. Whilst he wasn’t aggressive, I couldn’t exactly describe the demeanour of our dog as docile either. Initially, I thought his behaviour must be typical when younger boy asked me “why is Rocco humping?”, I answered with “it’s what dogs do”. However, I have known of fellow dog owners whose dogs have never done this or at least not until a much later age. Like other types of boys, they are all different.
I set a date which as with all unpleasant things came round too quickly. On the morning itself, Rocco and I walked around the blog and I felt like the worst dog owner alive. Obviously Rocco had no idea of what was to come, although he was clearly miffed at having had to miss breakfast. As the vet gave him his pre-op check, I kissed him goodbye and headed to work to sit it out. When I didn’t receive my promised lunchtime phone call telling me that all was well, I started to worry. What if he hadn’t come out of the anaesthetic and they didn’t know how to tell me? At the risk of seeming precious, I eventually phoned them to put myself out of my misery. I was assured that all was well and that I could collect him later. When we picked him up, Rocco was immediately nicknamed Coney and looked less than pleased about the situation. Navigation whilst wearing a cone was clearly an art which would take time to perfect.
What now? I suppose it’s just a case of sitting it out, we have a couple of post-op checks lined up and I am expecting him to remain subdued for the next few days. On leaving the vets yesterday, the surprise was being told that it could take up to three months for Rocco to calm down. Back to the waiting game.