The day of what we thought would be surgery...

On January 22 I took Dallas into the vet for surgery. I signed the dreaded paper work that explained EVERYTHING that what was about to happen to my poor baby. Dallas was to have surgery at 11am. I was nervous all morning, checking my phone constantly to make sure I didn't get a call saying something went wrong. And then at 11:15am I had a voicemail. I rushed into an office at work to listen, thinking the worst. Dr. Mary's message left in her lame and lifeless voice said that the surgeon had canceled last minute due to illness and that surgery could not be done today. My reaction was, "What kind of surgeon does that!?" I immediately called back, raging with question and anger.

Again, Dr. Mary's lifeless voice answered the phone. She explained that the surgeon was sick and that surgery could be done the next day, Friday, and that the owner of the practice was coming to perform it. Okay, that made me feel better. Someone was stepping up and taking ownership for this. The worst part was that Dallas had already been prepped and sedated.

This poor thing. I had to wait a few hours to pick him up, although Dr. Mary seemed like it didn't matter when I picked him up. The whole ride home he whined. The saddest whine I had ever heard from him. As we walked into the house he acted like he couldn't use his back legs. It was strange. He hadn't eaten since midnight and had no desire to eat or drink. I mean look at that face, he couldn't even give an function to his tongue!

Later that night he began to eat and drink. By morning, just in time to take him back in to the clinic, he was back to normal. And I had to make that dreadful drive up the street, around the lake and to the clinic, again.