Is it disrespectful to call her spay the ol’ snipperoo? If so, my sincere apologies. Lexi isn’t allowed food this morning before we drop her off. That’s a major affront to a lab puppy, and she has let us know in no uncertain terms that this is unacceptable. There have been multiple instances of inside tail tucking. We’ve all held onto each other and waited for them to end. After each break with reality, she’s ended up on the floor panting and looking around as if to say, “Was I responsible for all that mayhem?” Our faces give her a swift affirmative answer. She then begins to remember that she hasn’t received her breakfast yet, and suggestively leads us to her food bowl to begin the routine all over again. The routine goes like this:
- Lexi goes over to her food bowl and looks inside. She sees there is no food in there. She looks around and notices that nobody is there beside her to feel the despair that she is feeling.
- Lexi makes some noise and waits for someone to come over to join her at her food bowl. We don’t comply because we are laying low. This is round 2. We learned our lesson in round 1.
- Lexi comes over to us and gives us the EYES. It works because we know she won’t stop. We solemnly walk over to her food bowl with her to view the sad display that is an empty food bowl. We try to explain to her that she is not allowed to eat before the “procedure” but all she hears is “my human pack members hate me and want me to die why won’t they feed me they already don’t feed me all day long which is bad enough now they aren’t feeding me in the morning like they should they are the worst human pack members ever.”
- Lexi tries to move her bowl around a couple of times as a last ditch effort to make sure we are getting the message in case we are just really really stupid.
- We all leave the room because the silence has become uncomfortable, and we want to escape the EYES.
- Lexi begins the tail tuck process.
- Lather, rinse, repeat.
I have no idea how the poor, unsuspecting people at the vet’s office are going to deal with this madness. I really love our vet, so I’m going to play dumb when we take her in and hope she doesn’t subject them to a tail tuck episode.
UPDATE: She’s home!! Just like our last dog, Nikki, did after she was spayed, Lexi won’t look at me or speak to me. Every time I tried to catch her eyes on the way home to communicate my sympathy, she’d look the other way. She’s clearly in pain, so I wouldn’t give me the time of day either. If I could speak her language, I would tell her that it’s killing me to see her in pain. I doubt that would make her feel better though.