The dog ate my vacation.

We've been planning this trip for nearly a year.  We were going to go camping for a couple days, stay in a cabin in Blowing Rock for a couple days. Maybe have a chance to see an old friend who's moved up to North Carolina.  But instead I spent our vacation budget at the vet.  Routine stuff. Then blood work.  Then old-dog blood work on top of that.  Teeth cleaning. Removal of several masses on his head while already unconscious for the dental stuff. It swallowed up all of our lodging budget.  Plus, the ever-increasing price of gas has quelled my desire to drive through 4 states.

But it's all worth it to see my dog in that sad post-surgical cone.  Not that they gave us one at the vet.

Me: What? No cone-head?
Vet Girl: Um.  No?  I guess not?  Why?
Me: He had one last time he had something weird removed from his head.  I mean, he hated it and spent 3 days walking into walls because he couldn't see, but, if it's necessary...
Vet Girl: blank stare.


I brought him home yesterday afternoon, where he looked sad and laid in a heap on the floor for 2 hours.  Then he started scratching.  He made one wound bleed, but didn't quite pop the suture. I applied pressure.  I left him alone for 2 minutes to wash out the bloody rag and he scratched open another one. My husband hustled off to the pet store 30 minutes before closing to find an OTC cone-head appliance.  Which turned out to be better than the prescription one I got from the vet last time: this one's translucent, so he can kind of see where he's going.

Now he's just staring at me with that soulful, thanks-mom look in his eyes.  Oh. Wait.  That could be soulless homicidal fixation.  It's hard to tell with a dog.