A few weeks ago, while taking Sean on a walk, a drunk passing me by asked if he was a pit-bull and, before I could answer, told me not to get him fixed. As I gripped the leash a bit tighter, he went on to ask me if I’d like it if someone would “cut off my shit” before trying to buy him off me because he’d make a “good fighting dog.”
I told him “No thanks!” because I didn’t want a good fighting dog, I want—and have—a good dog, period. And even though I had put it off for as long as I absolutely could, I realized it was now time: Sean, my beloved adopted puppy, had to be neutered.
Even though I know all of the human reasons why something like this should be done—controlling the dog population, the chief reason—it is something that is still a little bit infeasible to wrap my mind around, as I was paying to have a vet surgically lacerate my pet’s genitals. On the way there, as he hid down in the backseat, a nervous scowl on his mug, I knew that he knew it too.
Secure on his leash, I led him out of the car and into the arms of a waiting aide at the Oklahoma Humane Society, 5835 S. Penn. In one of the saddest moments to ever tear my heart out of my chest, as the woman started to take him into the building, Sean tried to hold his ground and absolutely refused to go into the building, at one point laying dead on the ground.
While I wanted to go and grab him and now let him live out the rest of his life at play with his testicles in tow, she gently picked him up and carried him in. But, I swear, he cocked his head around and shot me the meanest look ever, causing a few quiet tears to drip down from my eyes.
I held the tantrum in on the ride home, thinking of all the good things that the Humane Society does for the animals of Oklahoma, from spaying and neutering at discounted rates to fostering and adopting dogs and cats that desperately need homes. But, still, I worried about whatever pain he was going through and wish I could go through it for him. (Hey, I don’t have kids…let me have this one.)
For the next few hours, I bit my nails down to the quick. I knew that the vets, animal specialists that have been trained for years (I hope) in dealing with spaying and neutering, had the situation fully under control; but, I have to admit, I was trembling in my soul for the absolute fear that I knew Sean went through as he started to go under. “Where was dad,” I’m sure he asked, “Why did he abandon me?”
Now if this was a “normal” time in American history, I would have stayed in the spay and neuter clinic almost all day, surely becoming a pest, questioning where my dog was and what was his status. But, thanks to Covid, instead, I waited around my significant other’s house until 3:30 or so, doing anything to keep my mind on something else. It really didn’t work.
When that time came, however, we sped to the southwest part of town to pick up our pup in the mutually accepted spot. He came out very dazed and highly drugged, slowly going to the front seat of the car and falling asleep right in my spot. It was alright though, as I went ahead and sat in the backseat, allowing him to have the front for once.
I’ve had him for the past week now, a plastic cone around his neck to help him not to pick at the threads holding together his scrotum. Even though, for the first couple of days he was doped out of his mind, after a while he became pretty good about the cone, almost getting used to it. I feel that, everyday, he’s returning to his natural self, even if he’s mad at me still.
I saw that homeless guy out in front of 7-Eleven a few days ago. He asked me about Sean and I told him I finally got him fixed. I was called a “dumb motherfucker” for the effort.
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