Oh, I am crass.

This is a post about balls. You may or may not want to read it.  Indeed, I am talking about gonads. Grimby’s, to be specific. Though, I promise this post has less to do with the actuals balls themselves than it is about the circumstances surrounding the removal of them.

I’ll stop using synonyms for Grim’s cojones pretty quickly here, I promise. I mean, after all, how many ways are there to say huevos? Evidently, there are several.

I would also like to mention that it is difficult to type when your dog insists on gluing himself to your side to chew on his favourite soggy pumpkin stuffy. Here’s what it looks like:

This is where Grimby is sitting while I type this. It’s very meta.

And then occasionally, he walks across my laptop, because obviously the other side of me is more comfortable. I mean, I love that he snuggles, but sometimes it’s a little tricky to get things done, though I suppose I could always go sit in my chair at my desk. Which is specifically designed for such activities as typing. You know, as opposed to lounging in horrible posture on the couch, craning my neck like a raptor whilst I tap out my thoughts on the laptop resting on my lap.

Nah.

Okay, so on Thursday, I bring the Mayor to the vet office in the early hours. All is well. He actually loves going to the vet, possibly because he loves everything except baths. And peeing in the rain and having his teeth brushed and his nails clipped.

I go back later that afternoon to pick him up and here’s what unfolds (you just knew there had to be something dramatic, right?): I chat with my favourite admin lady, who is all lovely and friendly and clearly adores Grimby more than all other patients. I know this because when I showed up to pick him up, she said, “Are you here to pick up the cutest little Boston Terrier and Best Dog in the World?”

I mean, there were other people in there with their dogs. Talk about awkward. True, Grimby was in fact 78 percent cuter than the next cutest dog, but still. So, clearly, Grimby is the vet office fave, based on the empirical and unbiased evidence that I just presented. Obviously. Have you seen him?

Sorry, all you other dogs. I know you are awesome and your owners love you very much, but that’s just the way it is. We do try to let other dogs feel good about themselves, by exclaiming how much our devastatingly handsome pup farts and snores (which is a lot, by the way). He is currently snoring on my lap, in fact. He has woken himself up six times with his own snoring. I’m kind of impressed.

I paid her, we chatted and laughed while agreeing that Grimby is the best dog on the planet. And she would know: She works with all kinds of pets. I paid her and filled out the microchip form (Grimby really wanted a chip. He’s really into technology.).

Then, the vet tech comes out to tell me about post-op care and gestures me into a room. I had a brief moment of concern, seeing as how I’ve only been in this particular room once, when my beloved Minnette was put down.

“Pshaw,” I told myself, “it’s just an examination room. You’re being silly.”

So, we’re standing there in The Death Room of Great Sorrow and she turns to me and says, “So, we made a mistake this morning with Grimby.” To which I responded, “Um, what?”

And I flung myself upon my hands and knees, gnashing my teeth and wailing in grief. Or at least had a mental flurry of concerned thoughts, such as:

“Oh my God, they killed Grimby!” and then, “Wait, they wouldn’t have made me pay for the surgery if they killed him.” After all, “Would they make me pay for the surgery after they killed him?” Let’s be rational here. Oh my gosh, what did they do? “Did they cut off a leg? Replace his heart? Replace him with a bunny?”

You guys, I was worried. I had me a moment. I think my reaction was only to be expected. It turns out this vet tech just has an awkward bedside manner. What had happened was that they did a blood test when we’d chosen against it (really, only because he is very healthy and it seemed an unnecessary expense. We are not bad pet people.). He was alive. Grimby was alive and had all his limbs and a normal puppy heart and wasn’t a bunny.

But wait <<insert more panic and wringing of hands>>, did they find something terrible in the blood test and that’s why I was in The Room of Sorrow Mingled with Death?

No, they did not. Grimby is perfectly healthy. That tech just really needs to choose her lead-in a little more carefully. I mean, come ON!

So that’s that. I am possibly somewhat dramatic and very much attached to this snoring fur ball.

I’ve been awfully  busy — did you miss me? I know I’ve been slacking off the blog. Here’s my excuse:

It’s hard work being this cute.

It turns out, puppies are a LOT of work. Who knew? Apparently, everyone but me. I mean, I knew having a puppy would mean some work, but I think my expectations were completely unrealistic. In my defence, I have never, ever had a puppy. Kittens, yes. Dog, yes. But the only dog I ever had, Chip, was a grown dog when we rescued him. So, really, I had no clue what I was getting myself into.

Having Grimby (short for Grimbergen, our favourite beer while in France) has been a great opportunity for me to learn about myself. Some of it has been good, some has been bad, much like the days themselves. I’ve discovered the following about myself:

• I am not a very patient person. I need to change this. I’m working on it.
• I’m a perfectionist. I know, I know: Everyone says this, but wow. I SERIOUSLY need to learn to let some things go. I’m working on this, too. Good thing Grimby’s a patient teacher.
• I don’t know what to do with anger.

This last one’s been a biggie. Pardon my language, but I have LOST MY SHIT so many times, I am mortified to admit it. I’m ashamed of my temper and who I become when I lose it. I don’t like me very much then, and it’s made me feel like I’m just like some members of my family who have some real anger management issues. Having grown up thinking I was so different from those people, at least in terms of my chill attitude and pleasant demeanour, this has proven exceptionally hard to swallow. I think herein lies my largest issue with poor little Grimby, who is just being a puppy and wondering what the hell he’s done and where he can hide from me when I’m blowing my lid. I’ve reacted in ways that make me cringe: shoving him away from me, or flipping him on his back, even when I know it’s not a good practice with dogs. I’ve yelled and shouted and seen him cowering. And oh, the profanity. Seriously, the sailor’s mouth on me. Pass me the bar of soap.

While I’m glad to be learning this now with a puppy, as opposed to a child, I’d really prefer to not have this red angry monster be a part of me. I’ve become terrified that if we should ever get around to having kids, I’ll be a terrible, angry, seeing-red mom, which is someone I very much don’t want to be (having grown up with a lot of anger around me and not liking it very much at all). I think that anger has probably always been there, being that I am, in fact, human, but I ignored it, since there were always people in my home who were often very, very angry, very, very often.

I’ve tried to figure out why I am SO poor at dealing with anger and I think I might know why (thanks to a recent epiphany): Those other people around me were so angry when I was growing up, that there wasn’t really room for me to be angry, too. Though now I realize that I should have had that right, too. Instead, I swallowed any anger I might have experienced and probably displayed through more acceptable attitudes: fear, timidity, avoidance and guilt/shame. Because there was so much stress, strife and anger in my home, there was no room for me to express angry feelings, which means I never learned how to manage or express anger in a more productive or acceptable manner. No one else knew how to deal with theirs, so I had no model to follow. I didn’t have a chance. But I realize that I do have a chance, and a choice, now. I’m actually amazed that I’ve never ever thought of this before.

Sharing this here makes me want to cry, because I hate it and it’s embarrassing. I feel vulnerable and ashamed of myself. I want to hide that this anger is a part of me, but I think that’s actually the problem. It’s time to own up and admit that I’m human and that humans sometimes get frustrated and angry. I’m working on it, though, which means owning it, accepting it and learning to translate my anger into more productive actions and emotions.

Because you know why? This little guy is awesome. Grimby is the cutest puppy in the world. Everyone loves him (well, maybe not Maui and Hermes) and I do, too.

After having enough in Petsmart, Grimby decided this was the best place for him to hang out.

I just want him to be the perfect dog. And you know what I’m learning? He already is. He accepts my flaws, without judging me, and he’s teaching me to do the same for him, and maybe more importantly, for me, too.

Who knew how much a small, snorty, wriggly little creature can teach you. I’m learning that, too.