Busted - Up Buster

Buster went in for his neutering surgery yesterday. Although it went far more smoothly than Rufus', the aftermath seems to be hitting him much harder. Granted, he's recovering from the surgery while shaking off a respiratory infection of some sort, but it's still worrying me. The poor guy looks miserable: he won't eat, sleeps fitfully, and is pretty frequently pestered by Rufus, who has decided that he wants to rule the world - or at least Buster's half of it.

To top it all off, Buster hates his meds. Combine that with the fact that he's got jaws like a steel bear trap, and an uncanny ability to pick even a fraction of a pill out of a ball of wet dog food or peanut butter, and dosing time becomes an extreme sport. Dogs usually perk up after the first day or two after surgery, and I'm hoping that poor ol' Buster will be more happy - and tractable - tomorrow. If nothing else, I want him to start eating properly; everything else will follow, but he's got to do at least that much.

Right now, he's curled up on our futon with two fans blowing over him and thunder rumbling noncomittally in the distance. There was an empty space next to him (where I'm certain he thinks I ought to be), so I remanded custody of "St. Christopher," a little stuffed beaver, to him. The toy had travelled literally from one end of the USA to the opposite shore with us when we were helping out bands visiting from Japan. It was sort of our good-luck charm, and though I'm not superstitious, I hope it can at least bring a little comfort to my ailing sidekick.

Get well soon, Buster.

UPDATE 8/10: Buster is feeling much better but poor old St. Christopher was mauled horrifically this morning and was laid to rest in the kitchen trash. I'm sure it was a martyr's death.


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