The dog, who can now only get up onto my bed if I lift all 38 pounds of her, wakes up momentarily in the blanket nest she worked ten minutes to build, looks at mea s if wondering what I'm still doing up, buries her head back in her gathered paws. "Why didn't you call her Frankendog on the blog?" my parents asked on the way home from dinner at the BBQ restaurant. The slits and sutures on her back make it look as though we had some kind of serious implant put into our dog. Like an upgrade, something that would let her regenerate her rear legs' muscle strength so that stair-climbing and bed-jumping would be easier.
For a being who's had my hand in her mouth three times today (administering an antibiotic that must taste fouler than foul), she's still mighty affectionate.