Baby, what am I going to do with you?

You returned to the emergency room today. You’re beginning to outpace me in hospital trips, a mantle you do not want to hoist, love. 

I’m not sure when it happened, but you bounded to me at the park today, grinning and filthy and hyper from a fresh round of romps. You backed in for a quick booty scratch before returning to the scrum.

And I could feel the blood on your spine.

I grabbed your collar, pushed fingers through your maroon double-coat. The problem with a Chocolate Lab is that when she bleeds, it’s hard to tell the difference between mud and plasma. This wasn’t mud. 

When we massaged your coat to inspect deeper, all the humans gasped: a deep gash, at least two inches wide, raked across your backbone.

You and I hopped in the car as the park watched and returned Charlie home (though I hear his undies were in a twist the whole time at the park: don’t tell him I said anything). I phoned the vet hospital, which saw you for emergency surgery.

You know I’m a wreck when you do this, right?

The vet said you must have carved yourself on a fence or other jutting metal; the tear was not consistent with a bite. He said the wound was recent, no older than a day or two. 

That just made it worse. Did I miss something last night? I’ve gotta be more thorough. 

Now you are home, shaved, stitched, sporting a drainage tube. In three days we’ll remove the tube. In two weeks we’ll remove the stitches. In a month life will be normal. 

But, goddamn, I’m sorry love. 

And, to whatever karmic force is at play here: I am used to your shit. Bring it. But leave her the fuck alone.

Sorry baby, hospital talk stirs the blood, as you’re starting to learn. It’s even got your dad asking stupid questions.

I know exactly what I am going to do with you, Jadie. Be there Every. Single. Time.