Recovery

I have been recovering from the surgery I had on Tuesday for bursitis. I had a bone spur removed from my left shoulder, which turned out to have worn a hole in my tendon so that that also had to be stitched up. This will keep my left arm in a sling for the next month not just the few days the doctor initially envisioned, not so great for typing blogs. No doubt this will also delay our return to Santa Rosalia while I get started on physical therapy. But even that can’t take place until I see the doctor next week. Today is a banner day however. I get take my bandages off, stop wearing my anti-embolism stockings, take a shower, wash my hair, and stop icing my shoulder constantly—in short become a semi-real human being again and not a smelly bed-ridden blob!

Esperando and Sweet Pickle have been my constant company through all of this. The Dog somehow is sensing it is not cool to be his normal boisterous self and jump on me. He has faithfully lain at my feet and worried when I have been in pain, coming close to press his nose against me in reassurance. How can dogs be such sensitive creatures? This is the same dog that can also stand on your feet like a Shetland pony and not notice when you scream in pain.

On our trip back up here Sweet Pickle was one happy dude. I don’t know if he knew we were on our way to Denver, but he did know that he was king of the mountain, no cats participating. Once we dropped over the mountains on I-70 and he could smell Denver in the air he started whining with excitement as he would greet an old friend.

After we got here he went to the groomers to become a new and cleaner dog, although he was not a cooperative dog. He simply hates baths, I am lucky to have a groomer who will put up with him. Unlike our yard of dirt in Santa Rosalia our Denver yard is filled with lawn. He no longer can wallow in the soil three times a day in a rife imitation of Pigpen, raising little clouds of dust every time someone pats him.

And then there was Dog Society to rejoin. All his neighbor dog buddies that he likes to play with, as well as a whole hillside of prairie dogs that he pretends to ignore when we go on walks. He used to be mildly interested in catching one, but now that he knows how hopeless it is, he ignores them while they whistle and call, rolling around doing the back stroke in the dirt of dog town not 5 feet from his face. Ah, what a noble dog.