The six million dollar dog!

That's my boy! A very expensive boy!

Recently, Zak blew out his knee. Irreparably damaged. One extremely costly operation later, he's home. Drugged out of his furry mind and stuck in the Cone of Shame.

The vet tells us Zak needs six months of recovery time. 

Six months???

That entails keeping him on a leash always, confining him to small quarters, watching him, doting on him, giving him massages and physical therapy for God's sake. It's up to me to take care of him 24-7 and make sure "he doesn't get excited." I said to the vet, "You're kidding, right?" Zak's a force of nature, as out of control as a tornado. He practically destroys the house trying to get to the mailman.

Now, I have to sleep downstairs because Zak can't handle the stairs to go up to our bedroom where he usually sleeps. We have a special harness to lift his back end up so he can take the two steps down off the deck into the yard. He can't be left alone and I can't go anywhere. Much to my mom's disgust, I can't take her on her weekly shopping and yelling sprees ("Huh. I guess your dog's more important than me.")

I feel like I'm under house arrest. A full-time job.

Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, they did. In one of those quirky moments that fate seems to love to toss my way, I fell off a stepladder in the garage. Now Zak and I hobble together up and down the street in painful, short walks. (It's funny how pet owners begin to resemble their pets: I have a limp, arthritis and gray whiskers! So does Zak!).

Seriously...if you're reading this, send help!