Imagine if your doctor deemed it necessary to remove your testicles.
You'd be sitting in his (or her) office, making small talk about your prostate gland and the like. And then he (or she) would say: "By the way, it's really time to get the old testicles cut off. Snip, snip. Say ... I've got an opening Tuesday."
But the doc's last words would be lost. That's because you'd be half-way down the hall, sprinting as furiously as possible with one hand protecting the genital region.
Recently, the news came down for Ollie the Pug. Our vet decreed it was time for neutering. Upon arriving home, I regarded Ollie sadly.
"Bad news, old chum," I said. "Tough luck."
Ollie pulled out his rawhide bone and, as is his custom, solemnly placed it on my shoe and commenced chewing vigorously.
Weeks ago, my wife had promised to go to a concert with me. But when that turned out to be N-Day, she declined.
"I must stay here, at home, with Ollie," she said.
"Why, what's up?"
"He's getting neutered. If you were getting neutered, I'd stay at home with you," she said.
"Ah, yes ... the neutering," I said. "No need to explain or speculate further."
When Ollie the Pug arrived home from the vet that fateful afternoon, he was not a happy camper. He seemed all groggy. And his tail -- usually coiled joyfully -- was straight as a chop-stick. Not only that, Ollie's habit of sticking his tongue out had caused it to completely dry out. His tongue felt like a pencil eraser. Apparently, he lacked the strength or the will to pull it back in. Poor little guy.
I went to the concert. No choice, as I was reviewing for the newspaper. When I returned around 11:30 p.m., everyone was in bed. Ollie was awake, though. Apparently, hours of drug-induced slumber had refreshed him tremendously. As I closed the front door he capered about excitedly.
"SRating 3," I whispered as he tried to bite my toes. "Go to sleep, Ollie. You've had a tough day, buddy."
What a surprising turn of events. Gosh, if someone removed my testicles, I'd curl and remain quiet for a long, long time. Like a decade. Ollie's attitude was quite different.
He even started doing his "pug run" around the house. This is when a pug dog reaches such a state of ecstatic joyousness, the only recourse is dashing about in circles like a madman.
It was now almost midnight.
"God, Ollie," I said. "Cool your boots. Everyone's trying to sleep. No pug run. No pug run!"
Ollie went into a cheeky bowing stance (front legs laid flat, head up, bottom wiggling in air) that means: "Come, let us have fun and merrily caper about."
"No Ollie," I said. "No capering after midnight. You might pull out your stitches."
If I had any sleeping pills or Quaaludes, I would have popped one on his tongue -- now sticking out but thoroughly wet.
The hall light switched on. It was my wife in her dressing gown.
"What are you doing with Ollie?" she said. "He seems really animated."
She looked at Ollie, who jumped up and licked her ear.
"Nothing, I swear. Guess he's back to normal more or less. Only, you know ... more rested than usual."
I led Ollie back to his pen, then closed the room's door. He began to whimper, but I think this was less about residual neutering pain and more about not being taken for walkies.
The next morning, Ollie still seemed OK. His stitches looked fine. But later on my wife was concerned. He hadn't had a bowel movement all day.
"Don't worry," I said. "He's off his schedule, what with his testicles being removed and all. He'll probably have a good BM tomorrow."
My wife looked concerned and unconvinced.
"And I bet it will be a really big one, too," I said, trying to cheer her up.
And by golly, you know what? He did. And it was.
