Friday was a big day in our house: Ripley (also affectionately referred to as “Pippy” or “Pip”) was neutered. It was like his bar mitzvah, except without the money, food, or…well, it’s basically the opposite of a bar mitzvah, I suppose.
When I was at work on Friday, my boss asked me about how Ripley was when we dropped him off for his surgery. “Oh, you know, fine, I guess,” I said. “It was a little alarming, though, when the technician asked us if we wanted Ripley resuscitated if his heart stopped while under anesthesia.”
“Oh yeah. Dogs are much more prone to dying on anesthesia than people are,” my boss replied.
UHH…what? So, of course, I was sufficiently freaking out the entire day, waiting for a phone call from the vet telling me that Ripley had died on the operating table, and how they’d not only been unsuccessful in the attempt to bring him back from All Dogs Go To Heaven, but how they were going to charge us $10,000 for their efforts to save his life.
Thankfully, though, everything turned out to be just fine. The poor little guy was so drugged up after we picked him up from the vet, he could barely walk. His Comfy Cone (we splurged ’cause, well, look at that face!) didn’t help matters either, since it was opaque black and limited his peripheral vision to almost nothing. It was a little pathetic.
Unfortunately, his little Comfy Cone was just a tad too small, so he was able to reach his little snout back to his nether regions, which is a big nein–nein! (I’ve recently been resorting to telling Ripley “no!” in German and/or Russian in order to get his attention, since using English words regularly said in conversation have little effect on furry friends.) We had to take Ripley back to the vet so he could get re-sized for a collar, and, of course, the next size up in the Comfy Cone series was way to big, making Ripley look like a wilted flower, so we had to resort to a plastic cone:
The problem with this cone is that it is completely transparent, so Ripley is, at times, unaware that it’s even on, so he will just run up behind you and ram you in the legs with it, or flop around while you’re trying to sleep and whack you in the noggin. It also pushes all of his hair up around his face so that he looks just generally smushed.
Of course, since Ripley was recovering from the loss of his manhood, we didn’t have much to do this weekend other than sit around and Weird Al some current Top 40 hits: