Today is the day. The day they remove my baby's surprise tumor. Now before you go all spastic on me, I am not talking about my three-year-old-son, but I am referring to my first baby, my beloved Italian greyhound. He is my first dog, and he has been with me through thick and through thin these last nine years, so I cannot help but turn into a nervous mama today, worried for my baby that's about to go under the knife. If you get a moment to say a little prayer for my guy that everything goes well, I'd appreciate it.
(If you haven't already figured it out, yep, we're those people. The ones that think of their dogs as their own children, just below their beloved three-year-old; the ones that have the crazy doghouse in the backyard with the cable TV and air conditioning; the people that talk to their pets as if they are human; and the ones that simply cannot imagine life without one of them there.)