Uterus-less

Olga is now back home and more or less back to normal, sans internal womanly parts.

I dropped her off yesterday at the vet without too much drama. Under the direction of the dog rescue agency, I had to pretend her name was Thelma -- the dog for whom her appointment had originally been made. (Where the real Thelma went, I'm not sure.) We not only had her spayed but also microchipped and blood tested for general health.

She was a wild, mischievous thing, a bundle of nerves, in the vet reception. When I picked her up several hours later, the difference couldn't have been more dramatic.

She was so drugged she could barely stand up, and of course she was wearing one of those ridiculous, awkward plastic cones to keep her from licking her wound. Poor girl. She wagged her tail when she saw me, but then promptly rested the wide end of the cone on the ground and fell asleep -- standing up.

She was indeed microchipped, but it turns out the chip is registered to the dog rescue agency, because we're not yet Olga's official owners. (Technically, we're still foster parents.) We have to call the rescue to have the registration transferred when the adoption is finalized. And then, I wonder, whose registration is it? Thelma's?

Anyway, the cab ride home was interesting. I had a Pakistani cab driver who was very intrigued by the dog's condition. He asked whether she was sick, and when I explained she'd been spayed, he asked how much it cost. It was free, I told him. (There are low-cost fees for some spays, but interestingly, staffys and bull terriers are spayed for free -- I assume because there are so many of them.)

"Oh, right," the cab driver said. Then: "How long you had dat bitch for?"

Just a week, I said, trying not to laugh at his usage of what I know is a perfectly acceptable word in that context.

All this time, I'm literally holding the dog up on the floor of the cab, and trying to give directions to the driver, who didn't seem to know his way around Notting Hill. (He was a private car service driver, not a black cab -- those black cab guys know how to get anywhere.)

Olga was happy to get back to the flat, but clearly frightened by her altered sense of perception. I promptly removed the cone, because she was practically unconscious anyway and no wound-chewing was likely to occur. She lay down and slept so soundly for so long that I was afraid she'd been over-anaesthetized, and maybe brain-damaged. She did manage to eat a little food before crawling into bed with us.

This morning she awoke bright-eyed and more or less her normal self, if slightly less energetic. I'm still avoiding the cone. She hasn't shown any inclination to chew her wound, or even any awareness of it, so I'm just going to keep an eye on her.

(Photo: Camden Market, yesterday. While Olga was at the vet I seized the opportunity to do some photography, though it was a frigid, gray day and I had to force myself to be outside!)