Cone Dog finished up her last antibiotic with peanut butter, and her incision is healing nicely. We even gave her the bath of all baths last night–although technically it was a shower. All the layers of multiple animal shelter germs went down the drain, and all her cloth items were freshly laundered, so she can be the Queen of Sheba like crazy dog ladies let their dogs become. It shall not be so! The human is the master. Never defy the Dog Whisperer.
Anyway, we figured it was time to let her cavort with Tonto, eight years her senior, since they will be cellmates friends till death do them part. She quickly established herself as younger, faster, and more energetic.
Who was this demon invading his territory? Why did she want to play? He just wants to lie around in his comfortable obesity and unquenchable need for attention and submissively pee himself, as he has always done. But Cone Dog is the captain now. Cone Dog controls her bladder, and Cone Dog controls Tonto. Tonto’s face says it all. Why couldn’t you have let me be an only dog??
Because, Tonto, God said it was not good for man to be alone. So now your neutered self and her spayed self can have have many years of merriment together. You’re welcome.
Last month, the cancer took our 13-year-old beagle, Jemima. She has made a half dozen appearances on this old blog, but ne’er again. Rest in peace, sweet girl.
Instead of leaving her partner, Tonto, of seven years alone, we decided to adopt one of the bajillions of Hurricane Harvey rescue dogs that have been shipped around the state. And that is how we came across Cone Dog.
Cone Dog was in a pitiful state at the animal shelter, having endured a hatchet spay job in a prior shelter, where they neglected to give her an e-collar and she consequently chewed her sutures into a snazzy infection. So we grabbed her ziplock bag of antibiotics (I later learned it’s illegal for a shelter to hand you drugs in a plastic bag), and put her on a leash, at which point she went full on flat Superman pose meets inactive Lot’s wife and would not budge. The vet says she doesn’t know how to dog yet.
But this little one-year-old basset/Jack Russell Cone Dog knows how to chew.
And she knows how to stay at the bottom of the stairs, so her sutures don’t rip open again from leaps and bounds.
And she stinks from several animal shelters, and we can’t wash her due to the surgery, but we just love on her and let her curl up on the cushion and play with her and watch her army crawl under the coffee table excessively, presumably to scratch her itchy spay parts that she can’t reach. She’s a hot mess right now. But I think we’ll keep her.