Any normal person would be worried, terrified even. But perhaps ignorance truly is bliss. Or, perhaps fear and pain are all in our head. Molson marched into the Vet’s office like he was visiting old friends. Sniffing around for anyone new since his last visit, looking to see what might have moved and if there was anyone new to say hi to. By a stroke of luck, the Vet Tech/Anesthesiologist ended up being Kristi, our neighbor from a few years ago. Molson remembered her and didn’t show the anxiety he sometimes displayed at other vet visits. After a few initial checks and discussions, Kristi took him into the back room to get him comfortable and ready for surgery the following day. It was difficult leaving him that night, but I trusted the team to take good care of him. Kristi was great about keeping me posted about the progress before, during, and after the surgery.
Surprisingly, Molson was back to himself the day following the surgery. My daughter Chloe and I went to pick him up and we could hear him barking in the back. He was barking the same way he would when he was ready to come inside after a few laps around the yard. It was that high pitched, get-your-attention kind of bark; not a painful yelp or a moan. We knew he was ready to go home. As one dog was released we could see him behind the glass of a kennel standing on a bed. It was the same Molson I dropped off. His tail was wagging. Perhaps he saw us, or heard Chloe and I talking in the lobby. Whatever it was, he was ready to come home.
As we drove Molson home, he wasn’t mad that I took him there to experience pain. He wasn’t mad that we left him there for 2 days. He wasn’t mad that he had to wear the cone of shame or that his face felt funny. He was just happy to see us. His tail was wagging and he was ready to go home. Through the following days of medicine and cleaning wounds and caring for him as he recovered, it became apparent that dogs are tougher than most people I know. He didn’t feel sorry for himself. He didn’t wine or expect us to wait on him hand and foot. He wanted to come to work with me again. He wanted to follow the kids around the yard. He wanted to play in the snow. He wanted to hang his head out the window as we drove even though the cone wouldn’t fit. It became clear that Molson was enjoying each moment as it came and not worried about what just happened or what might happen. He was truly living for today. Maybe I should too.