Please note: part of this was written yesterday, when I was channeling Anne Shirley. “Sad is happy for deep people”, y’all. After a good night’s sleep, I am better now.
proud relieved to report that Moxie survived her vet trip.
Yesterday – that fateful day – it really sunk in that, yes, I am that dog owner and Moxie is that furry, slavering demon. Oi.
Suffice it to say that my stress culminated in tears before we’d even got inside the office (which took more than an hour because my dog is so stubborn she wouldn’t let herself conk out after being tranqued*). I felt like pond scum.
But we made it. I have plenty of photographic evidence to prove that.
Things even started to look up toward the end of the day when Moxie was so heavily-medicated that she just wanted to sleep.
Now comes the recovery – like, right now, because they wouldn’t even keep her overnight – and then the therapy: frequent long walks, lots of treats, and regular social outings to try and reverse our tracks along this ridiculous journey to insanity. At this point, I don’t want to turn Moxie into an angel. I just want a creature that will tolerate the world at large without barring her teeth.
I swear my dog has not always been this way. There was a time when she was content to move among the world, ignoring people and other animals, or perhaps even allowing them to touch her. But then life, in all its messiness, got the better of us, and her mental health got ignored. “We’re fine,” I lied. She seemed happy, so I let it go.
Sometimes I feel like I start from scratch every single day of my life, whether or not I want to.
Why on earth does my dog’s social anxiety feel like some sort of sick metaphor for my life? This isn’t ok.
I don’t even want to talk about the bill.
What a way to round out the month.
*tranked? tranq’d? Either way, an hour after being tranquilized she still had the wherewithal to flip out the moment a stranger touched her.