Beorn is undergoing knee surgery today for a torn miniscus and another ligament I can't pronounce. We lump this surgery under the term "ACL" but the surgeon never used that term once in our meeting.
He will be laid up for at least eight weeks under a regimen of bed rest and supervised outdoor activities, meaning nothing more than pooping and peeing on a leash.
I asked if that meant special bombardier training and was given a quizzical look.
I explained, "Peeing and pooping onto a leash would, at the minimum, require some training and a steady bum in order to hit the leash. And Beorn can't use a Norden Bombsight, so he's gotta go with his naked eye and raw instinct. Also, I'm not sure how that is supposed to help his knee heal."
Nobody laughed. Lesson: Never explain a joke.
We dropped him off this morning. He'll be there all day and night, which is weird for us, as he's never been away from us or his home in all his seven years.
The surgery will run roughly $4200!
We used to joke that Boris was the big spender when it came to vet trips. He was always getting hurt. This is Beorn's chance to say, "Hold my beer."
During our meeting with the surgeon, Hudson (our puppy) got restless and I took him outside for a breather. When I came back inside, The Missus was wiping tears from her eyes.
I asked her later what got her all weepy.
She said the surgeon had her sign a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) directive prior to admitting Beorn, and the thought of him dying got to her.
I nodded sympathetically and told her that if they invoke the DNR and still charge us the $4200, she's gonna see me cry.
She laughed. I think.
I don't know for sure. I was driving.
But she buried her face in her hands and I saw her shoulders shaking, so I'm calling it a laugh.