Fiona recently went into heat for the first time (Cue music: I am Woman), so it was time to get her spayed. The LAST thing I want to deal with is a litter of puppies who take after their sassy mama! Before I could make her an appointment, we started noticing new things about her. First, her, um... shall we say, doggy breastesses, were much bigger than I remembered (not that I actively check them out on a regular basis!).
In addition, her mood and demeanor changed in not-so-subtle ways. All of a sudden, she was actually... NICE, and more cuddly than she'd ever been before (read: she would actually deign to lick your nose if you tried to get her to snuggle on your lap - I'm told that's what lap dogs do - before turning up her little black nose at you and hightailing it on to something better, like digging under the couch for imaginary lint).
I did a little internet searching and came away with the sinking feeling that she might already be pregnant. Savannah and Tom immediately lapsed into cries of "Awww... they'll be so cute!!" but all I could picture were bizarre Shih Tzu/Cavalier/Yellow lab couplings, as the only dog that I'd seen loitering hopefully in the yard to see his love was a goofy but lovable yellow lab that regularly makes the rounds in our neighborhood. Upon further studies with my buddy Google, I learned that large puppies in a small dog almost always create major medical problems.
Finally, even though Savannah laughed at my suggestion for a new made-for-MTV reality show, "Six Months and Pregnant," I learned how unhealthy it is for dogs under 2 years old to give birth. I am normally anti-abortion, but this seemed like a no-brainer to me. I called the vet and made an appointment for a week later, then gently broke the news to Tom. Although not terribly happy, he eventually accepted the inevitable.
A few days before Fiona's appointment, Tom started worrying more and more.
"Are you sure she's going to be okay?" he anxiously asked.
"She'll be fine," I assured.
Later that same night he asked again, concern and worry leaking through his tough-guy demeanor.
"What are they going to do to her?"
"Where will they have to cut?"
"How sore is she going to be?"
"How long will it take her to recover?"
And my very favorite, asked often over the next few days: "Does she have to?!"
The day of the appointment finally arrived, and he was nearly beside himself with worry. As I wrestled Fiona to get the leash on her, Tom scooped her into his arms, gently petting her while cooing sweet-nothings in her floppy ears.
Enough was enough!
"Geez!" I said, jokingly.
"You weren't near this concerned about my recuperation when I went in for my hysterectomy a few years ago. I don't recall any anxious questioning, much less any petting or cooing!"
I never thought I'd be battling a seven pound, doe-eyed, standoffish bundle of ebony for my husband's affections!
It turned out that she wasn't actually pregnant, which made us all feel better, and now I'll never have to worry about it.
Both Fiona and Tom are doing fine... :o)
