No thanks, I already ate

As a matter of course and toward an easier time at customs and immigration in the States we took our darling Mooshy to be castrated yesterday. Poor little guy...even as I type he's glaring at me accusingly out of the corner of his eye. I prostrate myself to the dog every few minutes or so and make peace offerings of gigantic buffalo bones full of tender marrow along with my very own highly coveted vegetarian granola bars which he so loves.

I've never had a dog before so didn't know the first thing about the what or how of the procedure, but in an effort to be a good guardian and ensure the best possible care for Mooshy I requested a tour of the facility and a rundown of the vet's credentials before I'd allow them to get started.

The doctor was very accommodating and explained that he really did understand my need for information and reassurance before he removed a big chunk from our furry little family member's body. He told me about his degree from Holland, explained all of the needles, instruments, sedatives, and medications in great detail - spending a solid hour just talking to me about a procedure that would take less than ten minutes to complete.
He even allowed me to hold the dog on my lap while he administered the first few shots of painkillers and sleeping meds. I sat with this 20kg baby perched on my legs, straining my pathetic arm muscles more and more every second as he got heavier and droopier.

The vet didn't bat an eye when Mooshy peed all over the floor and then puked up whatever stuff he'd rooted out of the garden that morning in reaction to the heavy dose he'd been given. He just smiled and kept on talking, telling me what he'd be doing each step of the way.
I thanked him, told him I really appreciated all the time and effort he took in helping me deal with my anxiety and then Hamid and I went to wait in the lobby while they did the actual cutting.

A short time later the doc asked us if we'd like to come back and help Mooshy wake up so we wandered into the surgery (a tiny room with metal tables covered with yesterday's newspaper...true to form for this part of the world) and started cooing at and petting the limp life form sprawled out in front of us. The vet continued to be as helpful as he possibly could, giving details about Mooshy's breathing, taking his pulse, explaining how to care for the stitched up space between the dog's legs; and then at some point in the conversation his face lit up and he seemed to have come up with a brilliant idea.

"Just a second, I'll be right back." he promised.

He returned with a wad of bloody cotton perched atop one outstretched palm and came toward us, his smile expectantly fixed on the two of us, certain he was doing us a major favor. I thought maybe he wanted to give us a live lesson on wound dressing but was shocked when I finally saw what it was he brought forth like such a prize: Mooshy's extracted, yet fully intact, testicles - little round, greyish, wet, bloody oval shaped things nestled together like Japanese quail eggs.

I haven't eaten a thing since then and am more than happy to give up my breakfast, lunch, and dinner to our poor damaged little fellow. Even the granola bars don't look very appetizing anymore. No big deal, I've been meaning to cut back on carbs anyway.