Pumpkin-Patra

In 2001, I had to have some surgery. Prior to this, I was wondering: who would take care of me? Who would take me to the hospital? Would anyone visit me? Who would watch my children? How was I going to get around in the house alone? Who would take me to run errands? Since I was the primary everything to everyone in my family and extended family, I was leery of anyone doing the same for me.  Surprisingly, Marie came up with the answers to my household questions: she would stay with the kids while I was in the hospital.  She decided that we would buy a twin bed with a high bed frame and thick box spring for me to sleep in the living room to be closer to the bathroom and high enough so I didn’t have to strain too much to get up. Thanks Marie! My fiancé at the time grudgingly took me to and from the hospital even though he hates hospitals, was there when I woke up in recovery. Marie cleaned my house, did the laundry and kept my kids in line.  I was very happy.

Until I actually came home from the hospital and realized that was as far as the “caring” went. Life went back to normal for everyone except me. I had to hobble around, very slowly, if I wanted to have anything to eat. I wasn’t supposed to drive for at least 2 weeks, wasn’t supposed to lift anything and then I begged my sister to go to the store for me but she wouldn’t. However, she did deign to TAKE me to the store, where I had to lean on a shopping cart and slowly hobble around the store collecting my items. Then she was nice enough to lift the bags out of the cart and put them in her car, but then wouldn’t take them upstairs for me!  So I was very sad. I had even fallen in the house once, and it took over half an hour for Brie to hear me calling (she was in her bed asleep!) and come out to help me up. Thank God the cats were there to sit on me to keep me warm.

Now let’s move the calendar up a few years. My little Pumpkin Louise is 3 years old and I wasn’t planning to breed her, although I would have loved her to have puppies and many people wanted a puppy by her. But alas, she’s so little and I decided that if she had a baby, she wouldn’t be the baby anymore. So I made the decision to have her spayed. I was horrified at the thought of her having surgery, but when the vet told me that if a female dog isn’t bred, each time she goes into heat it increases her chances of mammary cancer. I certainly didn’t want that, so I made the appointment.

Now, I’m not saying that she’s spoiled, but I did make sure in the days leading up to her surgery that I gave her extra love and treats and told her she was the best little dog in the world. I planned to take the day of her surgery off, but then figured it wasn’t necessary since I was dropping her off at 8 and wouldn’t be able to take her home until at least 3.  So she’d be fine at the vet’s.

However, when I took her there and they wanted to take her, I was reluctant to hand her over. Then I asked if I could scrub in and watch. Then I asked if I could be with her in recovery. Yeah: the answer to both of those questions was a resounding no.  But they assured me that she’d be fine and all would be well and I could call to check on when I could bring her home. Ha! Little did they know how many times I’d call to be sure the surgery went fine, and that she was recovering. Finally, when they were sick of me, they said I could pick her up at 3.

Oh what a joyous reunion it was! I had to be very careful with her, but I took my little princess home, carefully carried her upstairs and placed her gingerly on her bed, which of course is on my bed. I had gotten care instructions from the vet, but they basically consisted of keeping her quiet, don’t let her lick her stitches and that she shouldn’t be alone for the next couple of days because of the pain meds and she’d be a little groggy and lethargic.

So now I realized that I needed to take extra good care of her. And this is where the difference in her recovery, and my recovery, became more than evident!

When I needed to go downstairs, I knew she wouldn’t want to be in my room alone. So I picked her up, bed and all, and gingerly carried her downstairs. I had already put my special warm fuzzy in her bed so shed’ be all snuggly. I placed her and the bed on my brand new couch next to me so she could see me and I could pet her.  I figured she might be thirsty, so got I my special State Farm cup and got her a drink of water. Then when I had to go back upstairs, again I carried her, in her bed, back up the stairs and back in my room. I gave her another drink of water and put her squeaky fox in the bed with her and my special fleece. The next morning I was hoping she’d eat, so Gabriella put her food on a special little blue and white plate and brought it up to her.  While Brie held the plate, Pumpkin delicately nibbled on her food, and Brie had to turn the plate to make it convenient for her. Then I had to give her a drink of water out of the mug. Seriously?? And when it turned out that I had to go into work a couple of hours on Friday, I had to get a babysitter for her!

Pumpkin’s a smart dog: and she got used to this VERY quickly.  I carry that darn dog up and down those stairs in that stupid bed all the time. It’s like Cleopatra having her servants tote her around in that ornate carrier she had.  I’m calling my dog Pumpkin-Patra!   And even though now she can get around pretty good and is eating and doing other “normal” things, when it’s time to go upstairs or downstairs in the morning she jumps in her bed and looks all  pathetic until I carry her. And the best part of all: Luna has decided that she wants to jump on, or rather in, the bandwagon. The last time the bed was on the couch, I saw her trying to get in there too! That’s when I knew it had gone too far.

So Pumpkin is well on the mend, eating and moving around as she should be.  We are no longer holding her plate of food for her to eat. However, and just because she’s so cute, I might still carry little Pumpkin-Patra up the stairs tonight at bedtime.  But after that: that’s it!