Charlie went to the vet’s last Tuesday to be neutered. He’s a little over a year old now, which is the canine equivalent of being a rowdy teenager with a learner’s permit—old enough to get into trouble, and just young enough to think it’s a good idea.
He jumped into the truck like we were headed on the greatest adventure ever, tail wagging, tongue flapping, not a care in the world. He strutted into the vet’s office like he owned the place, sniffing every corner and introducing himself to everyone. “Hi, I’m Charlie. You smell like a snack. Wanna be friends?”
And then it hit him.
“Wait. You’re leaving me here?” he asked, ears back, eyes wide with betrayal.
“Yes,” I said, channeling my calmest mom voice. “You’ll be fine. I’ll pick you up later.”
Well, the dog we got back that evening was not the same confident explorer who’d leapt into the truck that morning. This one looked like he’d sat on a wasp nest and was absolutely certain it was our fault.
Then came the infamous Cone of Shame.
Even with that, by Wednesday Charlie had pulled all his stitches out, broken the cone, and ripped it off his head like it was on fire and full of bees.
“Charlie, what did you DO?” I gasped.
He looked me dead in the eye. “Stitches? I don’t need no stinkin’ stitches!” (Yes, that’s paraphrased from Blazing Saddles, but it was definitely the vibe.)
To top it off, his regular vet was on vacation. Of course he was. It’s a universal law: if something can go sideways, it will, and the vet will be sipping margaritas somewhere out of cell range. So off we went to the emergency clinic, where they gave him a bigger collar, a generous helping of staples, and a round of antibiotics. Surely that would do the trick. They also gave me a bill that could have bought a used car and a headache big enough to have its own zip code.
By Thursday, he’d broken the collar again and yanked out the staples for good measure. When I confronted him, he made it clear he had no intention of being held together with office supplies. This dog is part livestock guardian, part Houdini, and part chainsaw—and I’m single-handedly keeping Gorilla Tape in business just trying to keep the cone from total collapse.
I called his regular vet’s office again, and they gave me the ol’ shrug. Since he was clearly on a mission to remove anything foreign from his body—no matter how many times we reinstalled it—they said putting more staples in would be “pointless.” The wound would eventually granulate and heal on its own. (Granulate: fancy vet word for “It’ll scab up if he stops acting like a maniac.”)
Their one helpful tip? A blow-up pillow collar that looks like one of those neck pillows people wear in airports. It’s supposed to keep the cone from collapsing and maybe keep him from turning himself into a DIY project again.
So now poor Charlie is wearing a neck floatie and the Cone of Shame. We’re keeping him inside to avoid fly strike, and he's miserable. What should have been a few days of recovery before he was back out with his goats has turned into weeks of indoor incarceration, complete with wardrobe. He has lost not only his dignity, but also his masculinity and his freedom—all at the hands of the humans he once trusted.
He’s taken to sighing dramatically and lying by the door, like a disgraced action hero waiting for one last mission that will never come. Every exhale is heavy with betrayal, every glance at the doorknob a silent plea for freedom.
So here’s to Charlie—formerly intact, veteran of suffering, fashion icon of inflatable accessories, protector of goats, breaker of collars, and sole survivor of The Snipening. His resume grows by the day.
Please send Charlie your thoughts, prayers, and maybe a cone forged from steel-reinforced titanium with NASA-grade duct tape. He’s going to need it.
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