Sam is our almost-two-year-old Bernese Mountain Dog, 115 pounds of fluffy love. This morning he had surgery to remedy an OCD lesion on his right shoulder, and I am typing this from his “recovery room,” a futon mattress on the floor in my husband’s office.
Although mild OCD runs in the family, Sam is not Obsessive Compulsive Dog. He has something called Osteochondritis Dessicans, in which “cartilage loses some nutrient delivery either before or after misaligned stresses (with some obscure genetic origins) result in a fissure.” (All credit is due to http://devinefarm.net/health/joints.htm.)
I like to say the things that are wrong with me have some obscure genetic origins, and sometimes it’s even true.
Sam is pretty doped up at the moment. Thank heaven he doesn’t have to wear one of those torture devices known as an “Elizabethean collar.” Last time we had one in the house it was on Molly, and Sam spent ten days trying to liberate her from its crutches. When wearing one himself, he alternates between catatonic and head-bangeriffic.
For the next ten days or so, it’s going to pretty dull for Sam. We will try to amuse him with toys, and, who knows? Maybe he’ll learn to type his own entry on a keyboard with exceptionally large keys. (To get this, you will absolutely have to read my new favorite book, The Dogs of Babel.)