My son has a Yorkie puppy, and he and I hit it off immediately. So, on a recent master-dog bonding session, we partook in the time-honored tradition of getting his manhood snipped. Now, I fully support spaying and neutering pets, though you should probably only pick one. I certainly support it more than poor Drew Carey does -- he always sounds like he'd rather say anything else at the end of The Price Is Right but knows if he dared try, angry old ladies and sick college kids would string him up by his soul patch and fling Plinko chips at his nuts until he tearfully pledged allegiance to the United States Of Rover And Rovina Fucking Junior-Free.
But boy, there's a lot about telling your dog's DNA "this is as far as you go" that you only learn if you do it yourself. Or rather, pay some vet to do it while you thank the stars that, though it means you have to work and pay bills and worry about your family and their future, you are not a dog.
#4. It Will Look Like Your Dog Has Humongous Balls
Yes, I'm aware this part doesn't apply to anyone who owns a girl dog, a lover, a child, and/or a mother. But it involves scary-large doggie nuts, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, so why wouldn't you read on? Besides, dogs don't last forever and you have only two choices of gender -- chances are, you'll be snipping off balls sooner or later, so best to study ahead of time.
When I picked my dog up from the vet, I noticed two things:
A) He was not happy with me. Understandable, since I gave the thumbs-up to his castration and all. He didn't snap at me or bite me, but he refused to look me in the eye or kiss me at all. You'd think the silent treatment from something that can't talk wouldn't tug on my withered soul so, but it did.
"A hundred Beggin' Strips now, and I might let you die quickly."
B) I honestly wondered if the vet did anything at all, because he still had balls. And, if every giggling 10-year-old in the world taught me anything, it's that neutered dogs have no balls. So what gives? Did the vet hornswoggle me, taking my money and laughing behind my back for hours while my dog sadly nibbled on a Milk-Bone and wondered why his master hath forsaken him? Would I have to go to small claims court and argue about whether my dog still had live bullets in his chambers or not? And how would I prove it either way?
Is "my dog made babies and I saw one of the babies and the baby looked at me" proper legalese?
I decided to wait and see if, like, they'd fall off naturally, after he dragged them across the floor while scampering for a treat or something. Then, a couple days later, I scooped the little guy up to continue my lifelong apology tour and noticed that his testicles, once perfectly proportionate to his little dog body, had swollen to goddamn double-size. No, I will not provide pictures. Use your imagination. And then surrender to police for using your imagination that way, you nauseating freak.
So now, not only did this supposedly fixed pup still have balls, he had the biggest balls of them all. I was very proud, yet very concerned, just as I'd be if my own son had Violet Beauregarded his future babymakers. But just as I got ready to book a session with Judge Judy, I made like a doctor and Googled for information. And, as it turns out, my dog was perfectly fine. Not if you ask him, though.
"Y'know what? Make it a thousand Beggin' Strips. I'm no longer in a good mood."
The vet actually did his job perfectly, meaning the dog did not have testicles. What he did have, however, was his scrotal sac, which still looked very much like balls. What's more, this sac had swollen due to post-operation internal bleeding, along with a possible clot squatting inside the scrotum. All of this, perfectly normal. So, if this happens with your dog, just remember that as recovery progresses, the swelling should ebb away, leaving naught but an empty, wrinkled old shopping bag where once there were life-giving groceries.
Before that, though? Feel free to revel in your dog being the biggest stud on the block, even though he can't do anything with his power. I did.
#3. That Cone They Give You Is Totally Worthless
A small (though not small enough) portion of what I paid for making my dog more sterile than a Witcher went toward an Elizabethan collar, more popularly known as the Cone Of Shame. Theoretically, it's designed to stop the animal from biting, licking, scratching, or otherwise screwing with whatever part just got surgeried. Realistically, it couldn't be more useless. You'd do better to stuff your best friend's face into an actual traffic cone.
This barely even qualifies as a minor punishment in Doggie Hell.
After the anesthetic wore off, my puppy was as happy, active, and playful as ever. That was good. He was also as stubborn as ever. That was bad, because a big part of his stubbornness was, "I itch down there, and by God, I'm gonna do something about it!" So yeah, a big sheet of plastic blocking the path from his tongue to his scrotum meant absolutely nothing. If he had flexed and stretched and contorted himself any more than he did, I would've called the Yoga Dogs people and negotiated a contract.
Dan and Alejandra Borris
"Yep. Still doesn't work. Awesome."
After giving him more nos than there are coins in Scrooge McDuck's vault, I finally ended up at PetSmart to shop for a Plan B. After the workers there confirmed my thoughts that, yes, cones are useless (his was oversized and he STILL managed to outsmart it), they gave me something called an inflatable recovery collar -- a life-preserver-looking thing you blow up and then strap to the dog's neck. It was supposed to be firmer than a cone, thus making it harder for the dog to reach around it.
In hindsight, the dog being able to see the collar that he's wearing
should've been my first red flag.
My dog hacked that thing in like a minute. And like before, not a single one of my nos permeated his skull. He was biting the itchies away and loving every hot second of it. It wouldn't have annoyed me nearly as much if both I and the PetSmart worker hadn't spent forever trying to blow the goddamn thing up, because, no matter where we put our lips or how hard we bit down, no air would enter the thing. Several tries with several collars proved it wasn't a one-time fluke -- no, this inflatable collar was designed to make inflating a bigger challenge than becoming fluent in Dothraki.
Luckily, we have since found a solution. Turns out, in this case at least, two wrongs do make a right. He now has both the inflatable collar and the cone on at the same time, and that's done the trick. At least, for now it has. Puny human technology is ultimately no match for cunning wolf ingenuity.
A Very Guilty Doggie Daddy
Maybe we'll add a nice fall-colored bike helmet to really make the outfit dance.
Oh, and on a related note: When you're at the vet, don't call it the Cone Of Shame. They hate that. They've heard that joke a million-billion-katrillion times and are more sick of it than a cashier is of "Won't scan? Guess it's free!" I dared call it the Cone Of Shame once, and the vet's resigned, depressive, barely laugh made me want to run right to church and confess. Not for adultery or perversion but for being a professional comedian and still making the laziest, hackiest joke imaginable. Forgive me, Father Guido Sarducci, for I have sinned.