Charlie came through the dental cleaning with flying colors. No cavities, just one cracked tooth, but our vet said it still looked healthy so he left it in. He came out to greet me with a total lack of manners. He jumped up on the counter pretty clumsily, still suffering from the effects of the anesthesia. Charlie looked a little loopy, his eyes drooped slightly, but he was happy to see me, all was forgiven.
I went to pick him up on my way home from work, so I was driving my car, a Pontiac Firebird, which normally none of the dogs get to ride in. Besides no room for a dog, I like driving in a car with no dog hair swirling around my face, or leaving a dog hair contrail when I drive with the top down. I put Charlie in the car hoping he’d climb in the back and lay down. No, he wanted to hang out in my lap. I had to remind him that he was a sixty five pound dog, not a yorkie.
We got home just in time for dinner. Charlie rushed into the kitchen and drank water like he’d been lost in the desert for a week. Poor baby. As I dragged out the dog food buckets and dog bowls, Charlie looked at me with a skeptical look, wondering if he was really going to get fed or if I was just torturing him. He ate with gusto, as always.
At bedtime, Charlie climbed into his round bed, snuggled down and slept like a rock all night. All is right with the world, again.
A woman's view of hunting...with men 