The puppies were spayed and neutered yesterday.
Molly's was laparoscopic, two small incisions, so she seems to be doing well. Getting around the house, even climbed the steps to greet me today, which she wasn't supposed to do. But dogs will do what they want to see their person. She is wearing a little tank top over her spot, and she is recovering nicely - which is a good thing, since only I seem to have any sympathy for the plight of her fallopian tubes.
Meanwhile, Huck is having a harder time, and all empathy in the house belongs to him. All the men kneel down and talk to him, nose to nose, bro to bro.
His surgery was more invasive, and his incision more accessible, so he is wearing the cone of shame, bumping and bumbling his way around the house. He is the more dramatic of the two puppies, far more vocal even when he is feeling well. So, he lays around in his cone, groaning mournfully for the loss of all that could have been. Long sighs, long moans and howls that span his vocal range, high and low.
He reminds me of Billy Crystal's character in When Harry Met Sally, who lays in bed moaning, practicing feeling sorry for himself.
This morning, I came into the kitchen to pour my coffee, and the kitchen was full. All the men in my family were sharing the space, taking vitamins and making protein shakes and packing lunches. Huckleberry roamed at their feet, mournful and peripherally impaired.
I said, "There sure is a lot of testosterone in this kitchen."
Crickets. Zero response to my observation.
Then I said, "I almost said there are a lot of balls in this kitchen…"
All eyes darted in my direction.
"Too soon, Mom."
"That was insensitive, Mom."
"Don't attack him like that."