For college graduation, my brother gave me a stuffed dog I named Rusty Dog. He sits on my bed during the day and functions as a pillow and a light blocker during the night. Before we had children and a real dog, Rusty Dog provided us with quality entertainment. If one of us was in the bathroom, Rusty Dog would scratch at the door and bark, or he'd nibble someone's feet under the bed covers. Ah, the days of silliness and young love.
Over the years, Rusty Dog has suffered a couple of injuries, requiring surgeries, but he has aged remarkably well for the most part. Every morning, I make the bed, kiss his nose, and put him right where he belongs at the head of our bed.
A month ago, I noticed he'd obviously been in a fight of sorts because his left ear had been mauled. Narrowing down the suspects, I discussed it with Elliot, who claimed the fifth. Giving him a scolding and a reminder that Rusty Dog was here first, I made a virtual appointment for a surgery consultation.
Today, I discovered it was no longer needed.
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