As I put the bright orange harness on our seven-month-old puppy for the short walk to our vet to get him “done”, Walter stared me in the eye and looked deep into my soul as if to say, “I know where you’re taking me, you *******. I won’t forget this betrayal.”
Of course, getting your dog “done” (I can’t even bring myself to say the real word, let alone type it) is definitely the responsible thing to do.
No unwanted puppies, no charging across fields for miles when they get a whiff of a lady dog on heat and a load of other benefits as well.
The staff at the vet’s couldn’t have been nicer or more professional, but then they weren’t chopping bits of me off.
I’m sure executioners and torturers are nice people on their day off but you wouldn’t want to be sitting in the best seat in the house when it’s showtime.
Anyway, later that morning the vet texted me to say the procedure had gone well and we could collect Walter at the pre-arranged time.
He was a bit wobbly and confused after the general anaesthetic and two testicles lighter – but apart from that he looked well.
We fed him his favourite (chicken) for dinner and his second favourite (cheese) for dessert.
He lounged around on the sofa all evening then howled like a pining hound as soon as we put him to bed.
After years of following Gina Ford and her controlled crying method of getting babies to sleep in their own cots, there was only one thing for it.
I got on the sofa and he lay on the rug next to me.
I awoke at 4am with a crushing feeling in my chest and an inability to move my right arm.
Walter, who now weighs 15kg, had crawled onto the sofa and was asleep on me.
Then he woke up, asked to be let out in the garden and chased our two cats around in the dark.
Okay pal, I think you’re on the mend.
I’m off to bed now.
But the next week is the toughest part, keeping a hyperactive young lurcher on a short lead while the stitches and glue ‘ where his ‘assets’ used to be heal up.