Oh, I am crass.

This is a post about balls. You may or may not want to read it.  Indeed, I am talking about gonads. Grimby’s, to be specific. Though, I promise this post has less to do with the actuals balls themselves than it is about the circumstances surrounding the removal of them.

I’ll stop using synonyms for Grim’s cojones pretty quickly here, I promise. I mean, after all, how many ways are there to say huevos? Evidently, there are several.

I would also like to mention that it is difficult to type when your dog insists on gluing himself to your side to chew on his favourite soggy pumpkin stuffy. Here’s what it looks like:

This is where Grimby is sitting while I type this. It’s very meta.

And then occasionally, he walks across my laptop, because obviously the other side of me is more comfortable. I mean, I love that he snuggles, but sometimes it’s a little tricky to get things done, though I suppose I could always go sit in my chair at my desk. Which is specifically designed for such activities as typing. You know, as opposed to lounging in horrible posture on the couch, craning my neck like a raptor whilst I tap out my thoughts on the laptop resting on my lap.

Nah.

Okay, so on Thursday, I bring the Mayor to the vet office in the early hours. All is well. He actually loves going to the vet, possibly because he loves everything except baths. And peeing in the rain and having his teeth brushed and his nails clipped.

I go back later that afternoon to pick him up and here’s what unfolds (you just knew there had to be something dramatic, right?): I chat with my favourite admin lady, who is all lovely and friendly and clearly adores Grimby more than all other patients. I know this because when I showed up to pick him up, she said, “Are you here to pick up the cutest little Boston Terrier and Best Dog in the World?”

I mean, there were other people in there with their dogs. Talk about awkward. True, Grimby was in fact 78 percent cuter than the next cutest dog, but still. So, clearly, Grimby is the vet office fave, based on the empirical and unbiased evidence that I just presented. Obviously. Have you seen him?

Sorry, all you other dogs. I know you are awesome and your owners love you very much, but that’s just the way it is. We do try to let other dogs feel good about themselves, by exclaiming how much our devastatingly handsome pup farts and snores (which is a lot, by the way). He is currently snoring on my lap, in fact. He has woken himself up six times with his own snoring. I’m kind of impressed.

I paid her, we chatted and laughed while agreeing that Grimby is the best dog on the planet. And she would know: She works with all kinds of pets. I paid her and filled out the microchip form (Grimby really wanted a chip. He’s really into technology.).

Then, the vet tech comes out to tell me about post-op care and gestures me into a room. I had a brief moment of concern, seeing as how I’ve only been in this particular room once, when my beloved Minnette was put down.

“Pshaw,” I told myself, “it’s just an examination room. You’re being silly.”

So, we’re standing there in The Death Room of Great Sorrow and she turns to me and says, “So, we made a mistake this morning with Grimby.” To which I responded, “Um, what?”

And I flung myself upon my hands and knees, gnashing my teeth and wailing in grief. Or at least had a mental flurry of concerned thoughts, such as:

“Oh my God, they killed Grimby!” and then, “Wait, they wouldn’t have made me pay for the surgery if they killed him.” After all, “Would they make me pay for the surgery after they killed him?” Let’s be rational here. Oh my gosh, what did they do? “Did they cut off a leg? Replace his heart? Replace him with a bunny?”

You guys, I was worried. I had me a moment. I think my reaction was only to be expected. It turns out this vet tech just has an awkward bedside manner. What had happened was that they did a blood test when we’d chosen against it (really, only because he is very healthy and it seemed an unnecessary expense. We are not bad pet people.). He was alive. Grimby was alive and had all his limbs and a normal puppy heart and wasn’t a bunny.

But wait <<insert more panic and wringing of hands>>, did they find something terrible in the blood test and that’s why I was in The Room of Sorrow Mingled with Death?

No, they did not. Grimby is perfectly healthy. That tech just really needs to choose her lead-in a little more carefully. I mean, come ON!

So that’s that. I am possibly somewhat dramatic and very much attached to this snoring fur ball.