Bob Barker is an Ass

Maybe knowing that Bob had taped his final TPIR show made be a little nostalgic. Maybe I thought I should actually heed his suggestion to "have your pets spayed or neutered." For whatever reason, we had Dylan neutered and I feel terrible about it. Rather than take responsibility and own my guilt, I place it squarely on the shoulders of Mr. Barker. Help control the pet population, my ass.

Earlier this week, my wife asked me if I'd mind taking Dylan to the appointment. As I recall it, the conversation went something like:

"Yeah, I mind. I don't want to do it; I feel like I'm selling him out. He's going to be pissed at me," I confided.

"But you agreed that we should have this done. Now, you're telling me we're not going to do it?," she asked.

"No, we should do it. You asked me if I wanted to take him and I don't. I don't want to do it but I will."

And from there, the balls were in motion. I made the appointment for Friday. As I hung up with the vet's office, my anxiety began and my guilt started to build. Whenever, I'd take a study break and look outside to check on Dylan, it just so happened that he'd be licking his figs. You don't even know what's about to happen, I thought. There's a storm on the horizon, my friend, a storm that's going to leave you with an empty coin purse.

He had no idea how this week would turn out.

Thursday night, I met the gang for our usual THAD (THursday Afternoon Drinking, an admitted misnomer) where we get together for a few beers and some nachos. Dr. S, our vet and a good friend, was there with her husband. I let her know that she be working on Dylan the next morning. We chatted about it for a while. She assured me that it was the right thing to do, that it wasn't that bad for Dylan, that the surgery didn't take that long, and so on. She really put me at ease. I asked about prosthetics balls; she laughed and waved me off. She did, however, tell me to go visit the Neuticles site. (You should too, it's good stuff.)

I remember, as a kid, watching the vet work some cows at our home. I specifically recall the crazy look in the cow's eyes as he stood in the headgate, as if he knew that no good would come out of the next few minutes. I was awed by how quickly the vet seemed to work. Seriously, it seemed like only a couple of minutes for the entire procedure: one swift incision, reaching for the testicles, tossing them onto the ground nearly out of the animal's sight. Then, to add insult to injury, our dog Sam would run up and feast on them. Recalling this memory, there is no way for me to think that it wouldn't be that bad for Dylan.

As we finished dinner and were leaving, Dr. S asked me if I wanted to keep Dylan's boys.

"Sure," I said, "why not? I'll put them on the mantle."

"Great. I'll put them in a little 'formyl' for you and you can take them with you."

"Sweet. As the very least, I can give them to PJ."

That night, I barely slept. What sleep I did get was fitful and restless. I woke at 5:15 am and went to the gym. Then, I came home and gave Dylan a bath. He needed to be at the vet's between 8:30 and 9:00. I put off getting in the car as long as I could. Normally, Dylan loves riding in the car. Today, however, he was as happy and excited as I've ever seen him. It crushed me.

At the vet's office, he rushed in, sniffed things out, and promptly peed on the wall. Everyone had a good chuckle about it. A few minutes later, the vet tech came to take him back. I patted him on the head, scratched him under the chin, and handed over his leash. As I watched him leave the room and the door slowly close behind him, I felt queasy. I turned to the woman next to me and said, "I am such a traitor." She smiled but didn't disagree.

Later that afternoon, I went to go get him. When the vet tech brought him to the waiting room, he was still high from the anesthesia. It was sad but a slightly amusing: his eyes were bloodshot and droopy; he was slow and clumsy. A minute or two later, Dr. S comes out and we chat about how the surgery went, what to watch for, how long the recovery should take and so on. Then, she excuses herself for a moment, and disappears into the back.

A moment later, Dr. S comes back with a clear plastic bag with two specimen jars in it. As she's walking out, a vet tech asks her what she's got. Without missing a beat, Dr. S in a very clear, loud voice announces to the entire waiting room, "They're Dylan's testicles. He's taking them home."

Dead silence fell over the room. Judging eyes fell on me. Dr. S laughs, gives me a big hug, and gives me the goods. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

Now, I'm in some strange version of Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart."