Monday morning Miguel brought Bella into the vet’s for the big operation. After nine years and no Bella babies, it was time to get her “fixed.”
I am now pondering the significance of this word. “Fixed,” to me, implies that something was broken and needed repair, not the removing of ovaries and other useful parts.
I saw her last night. She was completely doped up. She scrambled to come see me as I walked in the door, letting out a little yelp as she momentarily forgot that her belly was tied together with string. Miguel said that was the first effort she made to move at all since she arrived home earlier that day. I stuck my face in her cone and let her lick my face for twenty whole seconds, once we helped her back into her little bed.
Oh my Bella. You don’t look “fixed” to me at all.