Rite of Passage

This morning at six the dogs woke me as usual, or at least one of them did. Bunny's ten years old, yet still wakes up like a child on Christmas morning, each and every morning, trying to push it earlier and earlier. Her tail wags madly and pounds the wall, the table, the metal cabinet. It's akin to being wakened by a brass band playing a Sousa march, and every morning right on cue I get grumpy and scold her into sitting down so her tail will stop its crass tintinnabulation. This lasts as long as her attention span, which is to say two seconds at most, and the band starts up again.

The other two dogs, Mrs. Beasley and the puppy, Bosco, blink and yawn and stretch like sensible dogs, then Bunny leads the way, hopping, whirling, ricocheting off the walls, the heater, the furniture, while the rest of us stagger towards the garage door, and outside. I scoop kibble from a bin into three bowls while three dogs squat and pee in unison. Bowls are strategically placed so Bosco can't get at Mrs. Beasley, who eats about ten times slower, having long outgrown the chug-a-lug style favored by puppies and less refined beasts of her acquaintance.

This morning was different though. Instead of eating, Bosco was whisked away to the vet to be spayed. I had a very hard time leaving her, and my eyes welled with tears as I did. I've always gotten dogs after they've been fixed, and this first experience was quite traumatic, even though it's her who has the real trauma. I know intellectually it's the right thing to do, but I kept thinking of her plump little pink belly and getting all maternal and mooshy.

I'm supposed to keep her calm for a couple of weeks after I bring her home tomorrow. Riiiight. Keep. a. puppy. calm. Yah... I can't even keep a ten-year-old dog calm for crying out loud! She and I may both need sedatives by the time this is over.