Yesterday the vet called us mid-morning and told us to come get our dog a full 4 hours earlier than they had said they would. Apparently he'd had his surgery, woken up, and then proceeded to stand in his cage and complain. "He's fine," they said. "Come get him." The note on his post-operative instructions said that he is cute and sweet, which doesn't exactly mesh with their message that we should come get him ASAP.
Speaking of post-operative instructions, the receptionist went over his meds and movement restrictions with us before she fetched him, and while she was talking about how he should be kept from running and jumping so he doesn't open his incision, the mental picture in my head was of him doing crazy laps around the great room. There's no way to stop him from doing that; in fact he did it this morning. I need to check his stitches, I guess.
But yesterday when he got home he was no where near able to zip around the house. He limped around whimpering and looking miserable, which made me feel bad for him so I called him to me and told him to sit so I could rub his ears. He came gingerly over and sat like I'd asked, but when his little doggy butt hit the floor he said a doggy version of "Ooof!" and whimpered some more. Poor guy. His convalescence didn't last as long as Husbandguy hoped it would, though (see above).