It was the worst of times. I was distracted from Minor’s imminent surgery by Dog’s sudden gastrointestinal complaint. He threw up a few times this week, not an uncommon occurrence for this dog with a goat’s appetite for any bit of garbage he encounters on the beach. But on Thursday morning he was vomiting bile, so we rushed him to the vet.

The vet could not really say what was wrong. It might be pancreatitis, a perforation in the stomach or intestine, an obstruction, or just a garden-variety “dietary indiscretion.” He was so dehydrated, though, they decided to keep him overnight for observation while they began to rule things out.

Late in the afternoon, they permitted us to visit him at the animal hospital. We went into the exam room to meet him, and they brought him into the exam room from the back door. He had an IV, and the vet tech was wheeling a stand behind him, just like a hospitalized person. He didn’t seem that sick. He was happy to see us, of course, but he quickly walked to the back door of the exam room and sat, as if to say, “Visiting hours are over.” It seemed like he wanted to be rid of us, but I think he just wanted to leave, the back door being the entrance with which he was most familiar.

That night was the first evening we’ve ever spent in the house without Dog. It was strange not to do Dog-related chores, like feeding him, tithing part of our dinners to him, and spreading blankets on the couch and bed for him to lie on. I missed him, and I missed taking care of him. Even with two adults and two children, the house felt lonely.

It was the epoch of incredulity. So I was already feeling sad and off-kilter when I woke up at 4:45 on Friday to make sure I was dressed and ready to leave by 5:30 to get Minor to the hospital by 6:30. I made it with a few minutes to spare and within ten minutes was brought in to see the intake nurse. She asked a round of questions, the ones they repeat with each contact they have with you (”What surgery is he having today?” “My God, don’t you have that written down somewhere?”). All was well until she said, “We don’t have an informed consent signed for Minor. Do you have it?”

“I don’t believe that,” I said. “That’s not possible. I spent the whole week being the middleman between the agency and the doctor’s office, and last night the doctor’s office called and left a message saying that everything was signed and there was nothing to worry about. I can play you the message.”

“Well, there’s an anesthesia consent, but not a surgical consent.”

“It’s right there.”

“It has to be on our consent form.”

“The nurse specifically told me that she had no form, and that they should just write a letter.”

“We have to follow the rules. Don’t worry, we’ll call the agency and get it straightened out.”

Don’t worry? It was 6:30; the adoption agency didn’t open until 9:00, assuming the director was working at all, or would check her messages first thing instead of going straight to a meeting. The nurses did not seem really concerned about tracking her down, either; they told me they “left a message” and she would call back, don’t worry. Around 8:00 I started dialing the adoption agency, figuring that by punching all the extensions I could raise someone who would know the director’s cell phone number. When the nurses saw me with my cell phone, they quickly ushered me into the office to use the land line, cell phones being verboten on the surgical ward (they make the plane crash). By 8:30 I had reached the secretary, and by 9:00 we had the consent.

By then the doctor was several surgeries into his day. Minor was supposed to have been first. They kept us back in the office, though, to go through the anesthesia consult (”What is she having done today?” He is getting tubes in his ears”). Then Minor and I both fell asleep in the anesthesia office. Finally, at 10:30 they had me put on a gown, and then suddenly it was rush, rush, rush.

The nurse anesthesiolgist accosted me in the hallway and began talking rapidly as we walked toward the surgical suite, telling me what would happen. They asked me to place Minor on his back and talk to him soothingly while they gave him the gas. As soon as they placed the mask on his face, he started screaming. I tried singing to him, but he didn’t even notice me. I think the whole performance of having me sing him off to dreamland was more for my benefit than for his.

Then they whisked me out. It was past 10:30 and I had not had any breakfast or coffee or even water all morning. I asked for a beeper so I could go to the cafeteria. “I don’t know,” the nurse said. “You want to be here when he wakes up, don’t you?”

“Five minutes?” I said. “He won’t be done by then.”

“He might,” she said, and let me into their kitchen, where I had a surprisingly good cup of coffee. The anesthesiologist stopped by to talk to me. He was Korean, and his surname was the same as Minor’s original surname. We chatted about Korea for a few minutes, and then the nurse called me to the recovery room.

Throughout the morning, when I was in and out of the intake offices and using the nurse’s phone, I had observed other children, older than Minor, waking up in the recovery room shrieking. I had assumed that they were frightened of their surroundings, and that Minor wouldn’t react that way since he was not concious of being in the hospital. I was surprised to find Minor also screaming his lungs out. His eyes were closed. The nurse explained that he was not really awake yet, and the screaming was just a reaction to the anesthesia wearing off. For five to ten minutes, he acted as though he were having night terrors. He wailed and arched his back. Nothing I did calmed him. Eventually his eyes opened and he continued to cry, although now it was just a typical angry cry. The nurse got me some water for his bottle, and as soon as he sucked it down he was a new baby.

The doctor came around to give discharge instructions and told me that Minor had had a lot of fluid in his ears, and that both of them were infected. “I see a lot of ears, and these were pretty bad,” he said. I felt terrible. Minor had been pulling on one ear the day before, but there was no indication of a full-blown double ear infection.

It was the spring of hope. So now both Dog and Minor are returned to the family fold. Dog seems much the same as always, except that he has lost a few pounds that frankly he could stand to lose. We have been forbidden from feeding him his usual leftovers. He has reacted with the obsessive compulsivity of a Prader-Willi dog. We are trying to convince him that love does not equal food, but he’s not buying it.

Minor is also doing pretty well. He was up pretty frequently the first night, but that may have been due to our new heating system malfunction or the six teeth erupting simultaneously at glacial speeds (four top, two bottom). Since then, he has been pretty cheerful. We’re hoping that the sudden cessation of ear pain will change his personality into something slightly lower-maintenance.

One can hope.