I wrote this on September 9th, just five short months ago. I didn’t think I was going to have to rewrite it. I thought we were in the clear. I thought the surgery was over. I thought the vomiting was over. I thought the lethargy was over. I thought the stitches and the cone were over.

Only it’s not over. We are going through this all over again.

Because my doggy? He has an underwear fetish. I mean, it’s not really just underwear. It’s bras and puzzle pieces and little pet shops and Barbie limbs and sippy cups and leaves and socks and shoes and slippers and well, pretty much everything he can sink his teeth into. It’s pica at it’s best. Or worst. But mostly it’s underwear. And no matter how careful I am with keeping laundry baskets out of reach and putting clean laundry away, he is a crafty sort. He’s kind of a perv, that little bugger.

And earlier this week, when I pulled half a v-string out of his mouth (one of my favorites, PS), I didn’t really think anything of it. He eats things he shouldn’t all the time. But then it started.

The vomiting. the lethargy. the decisions. the surgery.

They really just don’t prepare you.

You bring home a puppy and he’s just fantastic. He fits your family like a glove and becomes part of you instantly. He lies on top of Isabella and kisses her all over her face and loves on her because she is clearly his favorite. He makes everyone happy. He keeps you company when your husband is out of town and you spoil him and let him sleep at the end of your bed because, well, a couple nights won’t hurt him…

They really just don’t prepare you.

He loves this stupid aflac duck toy and throws it around the room. He loves his pal Gracie and let’s her throw him around the room. He is super stubborn and refuses to do his business when it rains. He will hold it for three days if he has to (we will never be moving to Seattle). He makes a shitty guard dog, as he doesn’t even bark when the doorbell rings. He just recently learned to leap tall couches in a single bound and looks very smug while doing it.

They really just don’t prepare you.

They don’t tell you that your one-and-a-half-year-old one-year-old puppy could possibly have been born with a bum intestine. They don’t tell you that he has an obstruction in it and it caused  him to vomit 27 times and then become listless and lethargic. They don’t tell you that it’s going to cost your Disney vacation plus your new laptop plus some other money you don’t have to go on and open him up andtry to fix him. They don’t tell you that  the money will seem completely insignificant because all you can think about it the possibility of getting your puppy well. They don’t tell you that he’s going to be in a ton of pain. They don’t tell you that the surgery might not work and that they may have to put him down.

put him down.

my puppy. my Indy.

They really just don’t prepare you for having to explain this all to your children; the very kids who have grown to love their surprise chrismukah gift more than any other gift they have ever received.

The surgery that found at least three pairs of underwear is over. Indy came out like a champ. He’s a special one, my boy. He will hopefully be coming home to us tomorrow and will hopefully not have the awful recovery he had the last time. I am now going to have to figure out how to change our lives. I am going to have to figure out how to – with three small children – keep every single edible and non-edible item out of Indy’s reach. (read: virtually impossible). And how to keep Indy in his crate or tethered up to something at every moment of the day (read: virtually impossible). But, honestly, what choice do I have?

I cannot do this again.

Indy cannot do this again.

We cannot do this again.