Well, the dog's ear thing hasn't cleared up. In fact, it's gotten yucky enough that my experience telling people about it face-to-face compels me not to gross you out here. If you have a penchant for veterinary disgust, look up Ear Margin Vasculitis. Don't say you weren't warned.
In any event, we've been sent to a veterinary specialist (who knew there were such things?). And I must say that their entire office were very competent, patient with our copious questions, and nice. They even called the next day to follow up, and were very patient with everything that came up, yet again. Still, due to the sticker shock of "My dog needs what?!?", I just can't shake this interchange from the episode "'Round Springfield" of The Simpsons, in which Marge and Homer are attending the opera.
Homer (wearing giant foam "We're #1!" finger): Man, these are some primo seats… I sure could use a hot dog right about now…
Marge: Homie, we're at the opera. You can't get hot dogs here!
Hot Dog Vendor: HOT DOGS! GETCHA HOT DOGS!!!
Homer: Woo hoo!
Marge: Do you just follow my husband around all the time?
Hot Dog Vendor: Lady, he's putting my kids through college!
Which is all kinds of fun currently, as we'll soon have our own little one whose options for college we'd like to keep open. Who knew, I'd end up in life identifying with Homer Jay…
In any event, a friend's prediction in the comments of this site that the dog would need the Cone of Shame proved correct, and the dog has been surprisingly brave about it: At one point while feeding it dinner last night, it started making this constricted hacking noise, and I was afraid the thing was on too tight for the dog to swallow, so quickly took it off.
Don't do that. Taking it off is ridiculously easy for those with opposable thumbs, in an emergency. But when the emergency turns out to be the dog essentially saying, "Bleaugh, I don't like this pill you fed me…," rather than your worst fears, the cone is at least as ridiculously difficult to put back on (unless you happen to have a degree in topology).
Still, the dog didn't run away with its tail between its legs the way it does when we come at it with its fleece-lined raincoat before we take it for a walk (During winter, I often have to enlist my wife's help in the daily "chasing of the dog" ritual). In fact, throughout all of this new headgear configuration, the dog just stood there, seemingly happy (drugged up?) to have me fiddling with and cursing at the completely foreign lampshade thing mounted around its neck.
As it is now, we have a new alarm system with regard to where the dog is in the house. Instead of having to listen for gnawing noises in the sudden silence after a regular play session with its bone, during which we fear it's moved on to the couch or our shoes or important documents or something, now we just listen for an arhythmic, plastic "bonk!" as it learns (badly) to navigate without any peripheral vision or the same depth perception (white ring around its field of view vs. nose) it once had. I know: "The poor dog!"… Well, call me a meanie, but it's also really cute. I'm not sure I'll think so when filling in long, curled impact grooves in our walls, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
In the meantime, "Bonk!… bonk!… bonk, bonk!… bonk!" and "Awwww…!!!" to one and all!
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