Three is just a number

I'm three years old now! Is that old in dog years? Mom and Dad don't think so. They talk about stuff and say I'm still a young dog. Well, I'm old enough to know snow is really cold on my paws. Is it spring yet?

I turned three on January 14. It was a quiet event. Mom had to work. Dad's home health care folks came in. His nurse scratched my belly and he ratted me out to Mom. Mom acted all insulted that I let some strange woman rub my tummy, but I know better. She doesn't really mind. She likes that I'm friendly when people come in. 

I'm friendly. I do not jump up on people. I'm too well-mannered for that. Mom brought me up right, you know. 

Mom and Dad are worried about me. Mom is convinced there's something more wrong with my leg than a torn cruciate. They keep talking about my hips and it sort of scares me. What's an X-ray? Does it hurt?

Dad had surgery and it hasn't been any fun for any of us. He can't take me outside now, so I have to go out and pee by myself.  What if I have to have surgery? Who is going to take care of me while Mom is at work? Dad's in no shape to do it. 

It makes Mom really sad. 

She talks to me at night after we go to bed and sometimes she cries and tells me she's so sorry my leg hurts. I don't blame her, though. It wasn't her fault I ran so hard and jumped so high I hurt myself. It doesn't matter because she still blames herself. She says surgery will be very hard on me because I can't tell her how I really feel. 

I guess if the vet says I need surgery, Mom will find a way to make it happen. I trust her to take care of me. I really want to live long enough to be a wise old dog. Mom said she'd like that.