What a long, strange trip it's been, my friends. It's been a few weeks since I had my left knee reconstructed, and I've been feeling a little rough. Well, my leg has been feeling rough; I've been feeling a little foggy. Mom said that's because surgery is hard on a dog - all the anesthesia to knock me out, all the medicine to keep me going during and after it. Bodies need time to adjust, Mom said, and I could certainly buy that.
Not long ago, though, Big Brother asked Mom, "Why is he staring at us like that?" Mom answered, "That's what being on drugs can look like." Dad said, "He's stoned," and Mom and Dad laughed and laughed, while Big Brother just shrugged and walked away.
Drugs? Stoned? I shook my cone-encircled head to get some clarity. Like Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds drugs, I wondered, humming the infamous Beatles tune. Were they serious? Was my fogginess because I have been drugged? I mean, I've had some pretty good cone-of-fame dreams when completely drug-free, so I know what that looks like. But drugs would certainly explain some of the weird things I've been hallucinating since my surgery.
Like what, you ask? Well, let's see. It's a pretty long list, but here are some highlights:
I dreamt my leg bone had been cut, rotated, and screwed back together and that it hurt quite a bit. I couldn't even put it down. Then Mom couldn't figure out how to pick me up without hurting my leg, so she put her hand under my butt and nearly dropped me as she hollered, "No! No! Please tell me my finger did not just go in his butt hole!" Hey, it wasn't good for me either, Mom.
The third or fourth time Mom carried me into the yard to potty, she said, "We need to figure something else out. I can't keep doing this. We're barely feeding him, so how can he be so frigging heavy?" I know that had to be a dream, because Mom would never say something mean like that about me.
The next night, Dad took me out to poo. He brought me back in and told Mom he'd be right back from picking up the deuce. She said to hurry, because she was putting me in the doggy backpack and needed his help. When he didn't come back for like 10 minutes, and Mom was stuck holding me, waiting for him to help her, I remember dreaming words that sounded like cussing. Same when Dad finally made it back, and Mom said things like, "Really? You couldn't open the poop bag? That's why you left me holding him?? It never occurred to you to just go back and get it later?" Dad saying he didn't want to lose the poo's location was not a satisfactory excuse.
I dreamt Mom carried me expertly in the backpack - well, we'll call it a front pack, since they can't figure out how to get me on her back - except for the times she bopped my head on the wall going up the stairs. She said sorry, but I dreamt she also laughed.
That was a lot like the time where Mom tried to loop the front pack's right strap over her shoulder but it wouldn't go all the way up - because my head was stuck in it! When Mom figured it out, she said, "Yikes, Gussy! Sorry! I didn't mean to strangle you," but she was also giggling, so I'm not sure how sorry she actually was.
I dreamt they kept telling me to walk the plank while they laughed like they were real clever, all the while ushering me onto a homemade ramp down to the back patio.
Mom looked up at this point, while proofreading my post. She had that bless your heart look on her face again. "Gus," she said, a smile starting to spread. "You have been taking some sedatives to keep you calm so you won't hurt yourself, but I'm not sure they're strong enough for hallucinations. I remember all those things happening, too, and I'm definitely not hallucinating."
I've got some looks, too, so I gave her my "you are not serious with this" look, snapped my tablet shut, turned my adorable face away from her, and waited for her to put me down from the couch. Showing her who's boss is a lot easier when I'm independently mobile, and that's just what I wanted to do when I found out my mistreatment hallucinations were real!
"Come on, Gus," Mom cooed. "Don't be mad. Taking care of you while you're injured is a lot, and we're doing our very best."
Huh. If that's their very best, I'd hate to see what them barely trying looks like! Who's got the number for Canine Social Services? I think I might need that.
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