She's doing very well although I fear that I stripped her of her dignity this morning. By doc's orders, she's to be in the crate when I'm not at home and, since she gnawed her stitches out the night after her surgery, she's to wear the horrific Elizabethan collar. Doc prefers that she wear it at all times but I just don't have the stomach for it. She has no experience with the collar so she holds her head down to see where she's going - of course that results in her bumping into things, say, walls, before they come into her view. It's confusing to her, and heartbreaking for me. But, truth be told, she doesn't have to wear the collar as long as I'm at home keeping an eye on her.
But when I go to work, the collar has to go on, and the crate has to come out. She hasn't been in a crate in years but didn't at all object to the reunion this morning. That is until she tried to turn around inside the crate. Since the collar is so wide, that simple action was difficult and she started turning her head back and forth in a panic and then backed out of the crate quick. I had to turn her around and back her back in and help her sit down, trying to get her calm again. Before going down the stairs, I turned back to look at her. There she was, sitting with her wrapped leg stiff and unbendable and shooting out to the left, and her head hung real low beneath the invisible weight of her missing dignity.
I cannot explain to her the necessity of the collar, so even though I know she must wear it, it hurt me to see her like that. I felt like listening to gospel music on the way to work, Swing Low Sweet Chariot or Will the Circle be Unbroken. And Cheyenne, she was likely wanting to hear the blues.
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