I apologize, dear reader, for my lengthy silence but Grandma’s schedule has been frantic and full for the past two weeks (I wish I could say the same for mine!). I realize that some of you have been concerned about my silence, so let me say, without any equivocation, that all is well with yours truly.
It was a hectic weekend for me, both from Grandma’s arrival on Friday for the pet writer’s conference, and our journey together to the Cape on Sunday for an early consultation Monday with a surgeon. The reward for these chaotic few days was delivered upon our arrival at Grandma and Grandpa’s, where Dad built a fire and Grandma handed out beautiful marrowbones. To say I was transported to a place of incredible bliss would be an understatement.
I faced the appointment Monday with my usual equanimity and sangfroid. I was gracious but reserved, tolerant but mindful, and open but cautious as I met this surgeon for the first time. He manipulated my weakening hind feet and legs, moving them back and forth and from side to side. He studied my x-rays closely, peering and squinting in the darkened room. And finally, for the coup de grace, he did the dreaded examination of my maleness. Why doctors seem so fascinated with that particular area of my anatomy, I have no idea. I do know that every single one of them ultimately arrives at that destination, for fondling, pressing, and palpating. I’ve become so inured to this process that I merely stare stoically ahead, imagining a juicy marrowbone or Lizzie’s head caught in a vice grip.
Well, dear reader, the news is not so grim. This learned man of medicine said that were I his dog, he would do nothing surgically, since spinal surgery is so risky and oftentimes has disastrous results. He said I was in no pain (I could have told him that had he asked!), and he certainly could see no diminution of life quality (again, I could have told him that). Outwardly I appear unchanged, except for the occasional cough or bark that can release a stored surprise, an exceedingly embarrassing event for a man-pug.
And so, yours truly once again escapes the dreaded knife. I was floating on air as we left, urging Grandma on to even greater speeds, so that I could finally enjoy a much-deserved breakfast.
Life is good!