Nutered or Neutered?

Our dog was neutered this past week.
It’s a simple procedure where in twenty minutes time under heavy anaesthesia, they remove one of his male parts and he’s left emasculated with a plastic cone around his neck to show for it.

I’m not laughing when I see him crash against the walls, crash against the floor or crash against us… at least, not on the outside.

It seems awful of me, but believe me: I can’t help it.

I’m being all tender with him: giving him treats, brushing his hair, and petting him more than usual to compensate for the cone-wearing state I have left him after a visit to the Vet.
My husband chastises me all the time because I stifle some giggles while helping Buono get onto his bed or while playing whit him and seeing how he can’t pick-up his favourite toy from the ground.

His cone is always on his way, he can’t even eat properly but growls at me when I get near his food.
I’ve come up with a strategy to make him learn faster how to properly walk for the next ten days: every time he has to walk some place and bums into chairs or the table, I grab his cone, and help him walk while saying: “up, up, keep it up”.

He looks at me with annoyance in his face, most surely thinking: how is it possible that I’m the uncoordinated one now?

Buono knows that I can’t walk straight and am always stumbling onto something.

I’ve seen him dreadfully looking at me when I’m stepping over him, afraid that I might fall over and make dog-puree out of him.

Now, I’m the one on the lookout, keeping an eye for “the cone”, hoping for him not to bump me from behind, because we’ll end up, both of us, splattered onto the floor: the clumsy one and the cone-head.

 Clumsy-Cone Puree