(insert pic of me with pockets inside out, moths flying out of them)

Hey, remember when Violet’s ACL blew out,
and I took her to N.C. State Veterinary School,
and they sliced and sutured her,
and I changed jobs so that I could afford to pay for the surgery,
and I had to keep her doped up so she wouldn’t injure herself during recovery,
but she totally did anyway,
so she had to have a second surgery,
and how she still limped, and they wanted to do another surgery,
but I didn’t have any more monies,
so she’s just kinda limped around for a couple years?

And remember how the vets told me about the great likelihood that she’d tear the knee on the other side at some point?

Guess what happened when she was chasing a bird on Friday night.

These things don't work so good.
“Hm. These things don’t work so good.”

She’s going to be fine.

She won’t put any weight on the right, so she’s hobbling around on her gimpy left leg, the one that’s atrophied from a couple years’ lack of use. But she’s back on her food, and she pooped finally after 40 hours of holding it post-injury.

She’s trying to do everything she could do before, and that makes me scared and sad, but I’m not as spastically emotional as I was last time. Because she’s going to be fine.

Off to the orthopedist we go on Thursday. This ortho—NOT the vet school; they can suck it—has a great reputation.

So she’s going to be fine.

You know, I took on extra responsibility at work and got a freelance second job so that I could have money to maybe buy a vial or two of baby juice. Now I get to use that money to buy an anterior cruciate ligament repair job for my dog.

I think the Universe is telling me not to procreate.

#pityparty