Back to the butcher shop...

I woke up late this morning and knew immediately that something was up. All the kids had left for school, but the parents were still home. So I got out of bed and went downstairs for breakfast. As usual, breakfast was that nasty dry crap they always give me, but since the "incident", they had added a little twist afterward. After I finished my meals, now they would give me a piece of meat or cheese with some little crunchy things in it. The crunchy things tasted kinda gross, but I'd eat almost anything wrapped in cheese, so it was no big deal.

So, after breakfast, they called me into the living room. As I walked in there, I noticed they were standing by "the box" with the door open. I wasn't about to get back in that thing after what happened to me last time, so I tried to bolt. Unfortunately, the combination of my wound, the drugs I had been taking (I found out later that the crunchy things in the cheese were actually pills), and the gigantic cone on my head made me a bit less agile than I usually am (and I was kind of a klutz before), so I was easily apprehended. Still, I wasn't going into that torture chamber without a fight, so I planted myself and gave all I had in resistance. In the end, they won, but I felt a little better having made it so difficult for them.

As I suspected, we arrived shortly at the hospital. I couldn't imagine what indignities they might inflict on me this time. Maybe they would put bows in my hair and dress me as a ballerina. I shuddered in anticipation. I guess Dad could sense my apprehension, so he opened the side window of the box and gently stroked my ears (I love when he does that) until I calmed down a little. About this time, a nice lady came to get me. When I noticed she was carrying a pink leash, I got scared all over again.

Luckily, my fears were unfounded. All they did was remove the drain tube from my chest. It was painless (not that I'm bothered by pain, anyway) and only took a minute. When it was time to go back home, I still protested at being shoved in "the box", but not quite as vigorously. I don't want them to get soft, y'know.

When we got home, they "sprung" me from my cell and everything was business as usual (except that I was still viewing the world from the inside of a bullhorn). Oh well, I guess it could be worse.

Ouch!

Well, I sure did it now. I was running around the backyard as usual, chasing the bushy tailed vermin. I wasn't looking where I was going and ran right into a piece of pipe that was sticking about 8 inches out of the ground. Apparently, it was once used to hold up a tree or something. Anyway, it caught me right in the chest, leaving a pretty nasty gash.

When I went back inside, I was trying to act nonchalant, but my mother saw my wound and called for my father. One look at the flap of skin hanging off my chest and he said, "that's going to need stitches. Wonderful. So they shoved me in "the box" and hauled me to the vet. They had to leave me in the car while they filled out all the paperwork because even in my semi-crippled state, I'd have still tried to eat all the other cute little furry things in there. When they finally came to get me, my father and some other guy carried me all the way to the back of the place, through several doors and down a couple of hallways and set me down.

It seemed like I was there forever, but I'm sure it wasn't really all that long. Finally, they came and took me out of the box and checked me out. Before I could say, "Hey, what are you doing", they had shaved my legs and stuck a needle in one of them. The worst part was that they did a really lousy job. They only shaved the bottom of each leg. I looked like an idiot. As I was wondering how I was going to explain this to the other dogs in the neighborhood, I started to get really sleepy. I just couldn't stay awake.

I woke up feeling kind of drunk. My head was spinning and everything seemed really loud. Something else felt a little strange, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. As I sat there scratching my head, it came to me. I wasn't scratching my head. I couldn't scratch it because there was a lampshade around my neck! Great. If the other dogs were going to laugh at my shaved legs, they were going to have a field day with this. The doctor came in after a few minutes to talk to me. I almost said something about how retarded my legs looked, but I figured I better just shut up. After all that had already happened to me, I couldn't imagine what they might do if they were offended. Anyway, the doctor explained to me that I had really done a number on myself. Not only had I ripped a 6-inch gash in my chest, but I had also peeled it back like a flap and even torn my pectoral muscle. He told me about how they had to stitch my muscle back together before stitching up the flap of skin. He also showed me where they had inserted a drain tube to prevent fluid buildup between the muscle and the "loose" skin. I tried not to smile, but I couldn't help being a little proud of myself. I don't do anything half-assed.

Eventually, I got to go home. It didn't really hurt, but I milked it for all it was worth. I got lots of attention from everybody. I'll be sure to keep you updated as I recover.