See that skeptical dawg? Yup. She is mine.

As many of you know, I am a new parent.

I’ve had a cat for years, but let’s get honest and say that just isn’t that same thing.  It’s not often you have a new baby in your life that is instantly potty-trained. Cats are low maintenance on all levels. My cat doesn’t even care if we touch. She would actually prefer if ALL of the bodily contact we have is on her terms… usually her paws on my windpipe to wake me up.

On the flip side…

I have a six-month-old toe-headed beauty named Emma. Sometimes I call her Mini Retriever. Often that is just shortened to “Mini Treeves” Or when I am feeling particularly nostalgic for the days of Bill and Ted and their Excellent Adventures,  we go with “Keanu Treeves”.  She has no sense of humor about any of this. She hasn’t developed her love for puns yet. We’re working on it.  She’s only a baby.

Emma likes to chomp on things. She likes to be close. She is 99% potty trained. She has a diploma. She cannot be trusted to be alone with doormats or shoes. She wants hugs all the time. She is not a cat.

Over this past weekend my beautiful baby girl had to go in and get spayed.

It was time.  She had humped her last leg.

Emma seemed utterly stoked to be at the vet’s office. Maybe it is because she’s a Golden Retriever and is stoked to be anywhere where there are people.  Maybe she just really likes the colorful mural displayed on the vet’s wall. It is a beautiful display of unity. A scantily clad woman, a lion and other fauna living together in harmony.  Pure glory.

I however, was not stoked. I knew she was about to go through something traumatic. She had to stay overnight. I was very worried that my little love bug would wake up and be scared and just want her Mom. This is probably just me, doing that whole human thing and making myself really important. In reality she was probably just completely high, and eating peanut butter treats like a champ. No matter. I was worried. I went and stress purchased a weird mixture of beans and sushi for lunch.  The vet’s office is right by a grocery store. It was a weird purchase. Impulsive. Driven by emotion and the curiosity as to if I could sprout my own lentils.  I cried in my car on the way home like a true hot mess.

When the phone-call came that Emma was out of surgery, feeling groovy and awake I was stoked. However, the call with the receptionist took an awkward turn.

Me: Oh, I am so glad that Emma is okay. I was worried. How does she seem?

Receptionist: She is doing great. She is the cutest ever. She is really just perfect. You should breed her.

Me: …

Receptionist: Oh, well I guess you can’t now. Darn it. I’m so sorry.

Me: I guess not.

I chuckled about that for a while after I hung up.  I am sure she felt bad about that one. How many times have we all put our foots in our mouths like that?  Classic.

The next morning, the husband and I went to go pick up our baby girl. She was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, dressed up in what could best be described as a tank top.  Emma was one bud-light and a beer cozy away from looking like she was  on her way to a white trash themed party.  (She still does. Maybe worse. The tank top isn’t fairing too well.) This is what they refer to as a “body stocking” so that she will not chew on her stitches. It’s today’s alternative to the cone of shame.

For the whole first day, she was out of it. She sprawled out on her brand new doggie bed and snored. I woke her up to feed her and give her treats and then she would pass out some more. Our instructions were to keep her quiet. No running, no jumping, no stairs, no rough play. That was going to be easy. This snooze hound couldn’t catch enough Zzzzs.

Saturday came. We let Emma out of her crate. She was stoked out of her mind. She started doing laps around the house. My husband and I looked at each other and panicked. Uh oh.

It was pouring rain outside. When we took Emma outside to go to the bathroom, she tried to lay down in a puddle as well as climb in our birdbath. She was feeling fine. She was feeling frisky. I was 100% worried that she was going to rip through her stitches.

Like any good new mom, I got on the internet. Hello, Google. (Side note: Why is there no Web MD for dogs?) I Google searched “How to keep your dog inactive after she is spayed”.  The first post that popped up was titled “Spay=Limit Activity= Are You Kidding Me??” and was posted on a Golden Retriever forum. Apparently she is not the only crazy post-op pup.

The husband and I joked around about the purchase of tranq darts. He suggested medicinal dog marijuana. I suggested benedryl. We settled on bully sticks.

Even now, I have a very small number of minutes to finish this post before Emma is done with her bully stick… which means she will then try to run, jump and perchance hurl herself up, over, and onto all of our furniture. She’s got moves.

I called the vet this morning with a list of concerns. They soothed my fears and told me it all sounded very normal. They told me to do the best I can. Excellent parenting advice, actually. Aren’t we all just doing the best we can, anyway? They also told me that if she starts bleeding profusely from her stomach to call them and to bring her in.  This is also really solid parenting advice. I will most likely take both of these gems into account when I birth my own human babies.

I have since decided to breathe, take a beat, give the dog bully sticks like it’s her job, and do my best to keep her from bleeding out. I will minimize how many puddles she gets her paws into. I will hug her until she can’t deal with it anymore. I will bake her sweet potatoes because they are her favorite and she is kind of spoiled.

Did I mention that she is supposed to be relatively inactive for two weeks?  What is this… day three?

Breathe.

Doing my best.

 

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