Here’s what happened. A few weeks ago, Chauncey went back under the knife for a little mast cell binary system on the back of her neck. Every indication was there for a successful surgical solution: early-ish detection, far from lymph nodes, nice scruffy area for the taking of wide margins. Afterwards, she was a little off her game because of the bandage wrapped around her neck to prevent her from scratching, but you know how dogs are: they cope.

Ten days later it was time to take the bandages off and the stitches out. I definitely perceived, or projected, a spring in her step when we got home. I lay there on the bed, loving her up, glad to let Jermajesty claim the pillow. When she started in to scratching the shaved part around her new scar, I put up my hand to prevent it, as I’d been doing for the past ten days. This time, though, it came back wet. Really wet. I looked down and saw that just like that, she had opened up the wound like a zipper. Holy living Kumba-fucking-ya, that was awful. Looking back, I find it remarkable that nobody yelped, gasped, or cried out in pain — not Chauncey, not me, not even Karyn when I called her in. Instead, we sprang into action. K. got a towel to wrap around her neck, and we bent all kinds of traffic laws getting her back out to the vet’s office. The most agonizing part was the wait while Dr. Darley finished up with her previous patient. Those seven minutes felt like an hour.

Naturally, she knew what to do. She even made a little joke about it. She stapled our girl back up and rewrapped her — this time, for a full fourteen days, if not more. Nor did she need to anesthetize her to do so.

Most dogs I know lean conservative. They value routines and family bonds, distrust novelty, and protect what’s theirs. As much as I hate to exploit her ignorances, I do take comfort knowing that from Chauncey’s perspective, this whole trauma was simply time in the car and on one of those strange tables that give you no purchase, no worse than a bath or a nail trim. And now it’s behind her, and what’s done is done.

Need New Body: Show Me Your Heart
“Show Me Your Heart” has always felt to me like a terrier’s theme song. The beat is the sound of trotting down the sidewalk on quick little legs. And the gory lyrics get some extra punch this week.