Fur Baby

Sweetie and I are big believers in compromise. We also believe in the veto. When we decided to bring a doggie into our home, I wanted a big black standard poodle and Sweetie wanted a chocolate lab. He felt poodles were too yappy, and I think labs shed enough fur to knit yourself a new dog pretty much every day. So, we got our Weimaraner. Not much fur, whipsmart, loyal, gorgeous.

For the last eight years, Emma has been a constant source of delight, laughter and cuddles. She sleeps under the covers, between us. I admit she has terrible table manners and is an awful bed hog, but she's never going to have to go out in the world to navigate the complexities of dorm life or a workplace. If you don't like her chin on your elbow, don't come to dinner.

Emma's only complaint in life is that the three of us are not together every single minute of every day. Today, she's at home alone wearing The Cone of Shame. Her right shoulder and left haunch look like she has been mauled by a tiger. The incisions from the removal of two suspicious lumps last week are gruesome - running from the dog equivalent of collarbone to elbow on one side and hip to bellybutton on the other.

We moved our mattress down to the living room so she doesn't have to take the stairs and rip the stitches. We are staying home and not letting anyone come by for fear she'll leap to her feet in her usual ecstatic greeting and rip the stitches. We are giving her massive doses of antibiotics to prevent infection. Painkillers, the whole routine. But mostly we're trying to keep her from moving so much, so she doesn't rip the stitches.

For a dog who seems to say, "That's all you got?!" after a 10k run, it's asking a lot for her to lie still for ten days. This is day four.

I'm praying for a speedy recovery, oh, and if anyone has a dose of patience to share, I'll take it.