Post-Op Day 14
At 7 PM, the crate went on the bed. Yes, on the bed.
After almost two weeks on the floor, my hip gave out. Then my thigh, knee, calf, little toe—and finally, my patience. Chronic pain is an old companion, dulled by three surgeries but never gone.
Lola was not impressed. That is the crate on the bed, and that is still a prison. You don't fool me, human. She sighed and voiced her discontent—a formal protest in escalating whines.
I bribed her with a slice of pear, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted my robe—her robe, as she saw it. I made it dachshund-safe, tying scrunchies around the sleeves. Wrapped her up, added two more blankets. Closed the top of the crate. She sighed, surrendered, and we slept.
I bribed her with a slice of pear, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted my robe—her robe, as she saw it. I made it dachshund-safe, tying scrunchies around the sleeves. Wrapped her up, added two more blankets. Closed the top of the crate. She sighed, surrendered, and we slept.
Stitches Out
We jumped into a Miles car. Cranked the heat, hit Thaerstraße.
Dr Laskawy greeted Lola with a kiss, a treat, and the quiet confidence of someone who heals. Lola licked her nose. Once. Then again.
Dr Laskawy turned to the counter. A packet rustled. Treats? Lola's ears twitched in anticipation. No—first, business.
She moistened the dressing and lifted its edges. Lola remained optimistic. A treat was coming. Tape loosened from skin, bit by bit. Beneath it, the scar—eight centimetres long on a forty-centimetre dachshund frame. No scabs, no angry redness, just a neat, clean line. Still, my chest shrank at the sight.
Then, snip, snip—the stitches were gone in minutes.
Dr Laskawy soaked a gauze pad, dabbed the skin, and reached for another packet. Lola pricked her ears. Treats? No. Another gauze, a pat-dry, and a spritz of aluminium acetate—functional, yes. Flattering? Absolutely not.
Then, two treats and Lola's faith in humans was restored.
