November 1, 2011

Little doggie under the knife...

I am preoccupied and worried. Alfred seems clingier and needier than usual, which is certainly saying something. Sure, he is being his usual cute self, attention seeking, climbing on top of us as we watch TV, licking our heads, humping his step-brother, belching. The little Ewok is showing his love even more than usual, or maybe it just seems that way.

Tomorrow my canine baby goes under the knife. It will be his first surgery, well his second if you count that time when he was six months old and they knocked him out and cut off his balls. I am hoping he doesn't remember that one.

Alfred will be having two surgeries tomorrow, both pretty routine from what they tell me: a recessed tooth will be removed, and a dropped eyelid will be corrected. Yes, the little guy is getting an eye job before I am... what is up with that?

As any parent would, I have been tossing and turning over this one, even though I know he will be knocked out and will not feel anything, and when I pick him up tomorrow evening all will be fine. What about when I drop him off and leave him there? What about when he wakes up alone in at the vet's?

In the back recesses of my mind, I know that Alfie is not my child. Well, sort of. As I don't have kids, or a fully developed parental instinct, he is it for me, and yes I love him madly. My husband refers to Alfred as the love of my life, in a non-gross kind of way... is that so wrong?

And don't tell Alfie he is not my kid, with his bright shining eyes beaming up at me. I haven't even had the courage to tell him he's adopted.

I'm worried about Alfie's minor surgery. I'm worried about Kim Kardashian's marital disaster. I'm worried about the now-unemployed cast of Charlie's Angels. Okay, screw those bitches. I am really only worried about Alfie, who will be absolutely spectacularly fine. I am the stressed one here...

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