The Boys Are Never Coming Back In Town

This morning I took Brutus to the vet. He got so excited when he saw me holding his leash. No running line today! No sir! He beat his little tail against the floor in anticipation of the exciting adventures on which he knew we were about to embark...and his enthusiasm did not diminish upon arriving at the vet’s office. So many smells to smell! So many butts to sniff! So many shoulders to rip out of sockets! (Oh, wait...there was just one of those.)

The vet’s assistant checked us in and weighed him. A measly 42 lbs. Really, buddy? You’re embarrassing me. You’re supposed to be a big, scary man-dog. And unfortunately, what’s about to happen to you is not exactly going to help you out in the man department.

Poor kid has no idea what’s in store for him. All the time he was acting so excited this morning, I couldn’t help but think that if he had even an inkling of what we were signing him up for, he’d probably be knocking down our neighbor’s door and begging Sergio to let him move in and never to grant us visitation rights.

Last night was the worst. He got up in between Gary and me in our bed and flopped down right up next to me, little spoon style. I just about died of happiness and wondered for a moment if we were indeed doing the right thing.

We are. I know. I read an article written by Cesar Milan, Dog Whisperer (I swear I’m a normal person, not one of those freaks who dresses their dogs in clothes or cooks them gourmet meals – even though I do receive an unsolicited dog food recipe every month from Rachel Ray, which is just one more reason I regret buying her magazine) talking about how dogs don’t plan for their puppies’ weddings or hope for grandpuppies or really care at all when they lose their...mojo. He went on to say Brutus won’t be mad or resent us for taking away his manhood, but I still can’t help feeling a little guilty.

The process actually went much more smoothly than I expected it would. Our vet's office is downtown, just a few blocks from our house, so I guess they’re used to less affluent people bringing their pets in. My friend Sam, however, lives out East where all the rich folks live, so her vet’s office is proportionately more pretentious. She told me about her experience when she took her Mastiff in to be neutered, and it sounded an awful lot like every experience I’ve ever had at the mechanic’s.

Snooty Vet Lady: Would you like us to hook Rooney up to an IV?

Sam: Um...no, I don’t think that’s necessary.

Snooty Vet Lady: WHAT KIND OF A MOTHER ARE YOU???

Sam: A rational one?

Snooty Vet Lady: Well how about food? Would you like us to feed him?

Sam: I can feed him when he gets home...he only eats once a day.

Snooty Vet Lady: YOU’RE A MONSTER!!!

Sam: I’m sorry...am I being punk’d?

Snooty Vet Lady: Well would you at least like him to have a Swedish Hot Stone Massage after the surgery? It’s only 400 extra dollars. Is that too much to ask?

Sam: Uh...yes. That’s too much to ask. He’s a dog.

Snooty Vet Lady: Well I don’t know why you didn’t just grab a pair of rusty scissors and do this yourself! Do you even like your dog??? Also, you’re going to need a new air filter. Look. This one’s brown.

Sam: What??? Where am I?

Comparatively, I feel like I got off pretty easy. All they asked me was if I wanted to get some take-home meds for him for the next 4 days for 16 extra dollars (why not?), and whether or not I wanted an Elizabethan collar. I must have looked confused, because she went on to tell me it’s the lampshade thing that keeps him from licking his stitches. I like things that are hilarious, so I’m sure you can all guess what my answer was.

Tune in next week to find out if Brutus is still speaking to us.



UPDATE: In a not-so-surprising turn of events,  Gary and I both feel like huge jerks. Brutus looks absolutely pathetic. Heartbroken. Betrayed. He's got tear tracks etched deep in the fur on either side of his sweet little face. We are monsters!

They told us he had to stay in his kennel for 24 hours and that he couldn't go outside except to use the bathroom for ten days. Upon hearing this, Gary, overcome by neuterer's remorse, ran out to Petsmart and bought Brutus a brand new extra large crate and about $70 worth of treats and toys.

If you think I'm exaggerating for dramatic effect, you're wrong. I mean, we won't be able to afford groceries next week, but I'll sleep better knowing our dog is happy. (Ok, maybe just a little bit on that last part.)