My dog, Henry, is getting fixed in a couple of weeks. Before last night, I think he suspected. His bark has been more sarcastic lately. When I tell him to sit, he obeys, but he does so begrudgingly. It could be that Henry is now a teenager (in dog years), or it may just be that he knows his manhood is about to end before it even begins. Such is the tragedy of a dog’s life.
I think Henry always knew this time was coming. About a month after we brought him home, he made a break for it. I wasn’t home to witness the self-emancipation, but apparently he just shot out the door and ran for freedom. For five minutes he was chased around the neighborhood by my girlfriend and four others. He made it around the block before shooting back inside and straight into his crate, soiling himself somewhere along the way.
We never found a goodbye note, and when I got home he refused to explain himself. As to where he was going, I don’t think even he knows. My guess was one of his two favorite spots: the next-door parking lot that is populated by a colony of giant cockroaches or the corner of our apartment building, a place he’s been obsessed with ever since a homeless person took a crap there.
The procedure will be performed at a place on Sunset Boulevard in a hospital picked randomly off the Internet for its low price. Why pay premium dollar for something that Henry won’t even enjoy? We’re hoping that he doesn't have to wear a cone on his head (which would prevent him from inadvertently removing his stitches after the surgery), but by the way he chews up underwear, we’re not optimistic.
Last night, I decided to come clean and tell Henry about the operation. I explained that it would be a great opportunity to refocus his life’s work on treat retrieval. When discussing the possibility of a cone, I tried to explain to Henry that when I was young I had to wear corrective shoes and braces. Sometimes we must go through an awkward adolescence in order to become our beautiful selves. He just looked at me and farted.
If he could talk I’m sure he’d say, “Why are you doing this to me?” Of course if he could talk, I’d ask him, “Since you’re blessed with a sense of smell 100 times greater than my own, why do you spend most of your time smelling dog butts?”
So Henry, if you’re reading this, please accept my very public apology for what is about to happen to you. And Good Boy! for learning how to use a computer.