THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, February 10, 1995 TAG: 9502090179
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 85 lines
A couple of years ago, as those of you who are fans of that cantankerous fuzzball known as Charlie the Lhasa may remember, our resident canine had the kind of knee surgery usually reserved for pampered football players.
For six weeks he was confined to something his personal physician refers to as ``cage rest.'' Charlie prefers to think of it as something he should report to Amnesty International.
I consider it to be pure he-double-matchsticks. For me, not for him.
I was the one who had to spend each day listening to his squeaks, snarls and barks - all of which translated into the dog equivalent of hard core cursing.
Guess what, folks, we're back in purgatory again. Only this time it's for eight weeks.
It all started when Charlie went out the back door one cold and windy morning and came back in with his brains scrambled. Lhasa tend to do that when the weather reminds them of their ancestral Himalayas.
Anyway, he barged through the family room door at a speed somewhere between that of Ricky Rudd on a good day in Daytona and your average rocket lifting off from Cape Canaveral.
Then he cut the corner into the hall on two legs, leapt over a pile of dirty laundry outside the bathroom door and was airborne again by the time he reached my office. Where, unfortunately, he misjudged the distance to his favorite perch, landed short and let out a terrible yelp.
When Charlie yelps, we listen. This is a dog who can run full speed into a brick wall and never utter a sound.
Sure enough, when he finally picked himself up he was limping badly.
A trip to our regular vet, the one for whom Charlie reserves his most adoring looks, confirmed our fears.
``Poor baby,'' she said as they gazed fondly into each other's eyes, ``It looks like you've done in your other knee.''
``Just cuddle me for awhile and I'll be fine,'' Charlie whimpered.
Cuddling was not what his doc had in mind. ``I'm afraid this means more surgery,'' she said.
``Well, guy, think positively,'' the veterinary surgeon who had operated on his other knee told him a few days later. ``Once this one is fixed up, you're out of knees.''
``That's nice to know,'' I said. ``I figured he had one on each leg.''
``I don't have knees in front,'' the dust mop snarled with even more ill humor than usual. His bad temper was a predictor of things to come.
A couple of days later he had the surgery. Then he came home the same afternoon, a pitiful little puddle of bandages and pain. That lasted about 12 hours.
``Take the bandage off in two days,'' the doctor had said, ``and see his regular doctor to have the stitches out in 10.''
Charlie had other ideas. The morning of the second day after the surgery we found him with the top inch of the bandage chewed away, a length of surgical thread in his mouth and a snarl on his lips. ``I'm taking them out myself,'' he told us.
We met his doctor when she arrived at the office that morning. ``No harm done, fortunately,'' she told us as she cut the bandage away and placed an Elizabethan collar around his neck so that he couldn't get to the rest of the stitches.
We brought him home and placed him in a play pen in the family room.
That weekend Andy, Kristin and baby Alex came for a visit. Alex laid on a blanket outside the play pen and cooed at Charlie. Charlie sat inside the play pen and snarled at everyone.
The following weekend he got even with us. He escaped from the play pen not once, but twice. The second time he managed to ditch the Elizabethan collar in the process.
``That's it, you're in a cage for the duration,'' Bill told him.
Despite the fuzzball's profane protests we went out and bought one, put him in it and he's been there ever since.
On Monday we took him to his doctor to see if he had done any damage and to have the rest of his stitches removed.
``You're really lucky this time,'' she told us, ``it doesn't seem as though he re-injured the knee. But,'' she added, ``it's going to be a very long eight weeks.''
``Amen,'' Bill and I chorused.
``Convince them to let me go home with you and I'll be fine,'' the dust mop told his adored doctor as he gazed deeply into her eyes.
``Don't tempt me,'' I told him, ``just don't tempt me.'' by CNB