My dog is a conehead!

Poor Norton. He scratched his face trying to get out of his crate (again) today.


Here's a picture Marisa took at the vet.

It's so sad. He's so sad.

It's a helpless feeling sometimes. And I know it hurts her even more than me. She's the one who found him, trying to dig his way out from under one wall of the crate.

But I'm the one who put him in there. I'm the one who said I didn't want to risk him being loose anymore.

I love him. I spend every morning with him. I walk him every day.

He's a good dog.

But he's sick in the head. The anxiety is so bad, he hurts himself without even realizing it.

I know what it's like to battle demons out of your control, in your mind. I wish I could explain it to him. I wish I could tell him everything's going to be fine, that someone will come home to him soon and he doesn't need to worry.

But he doesn't understand me.

I sometimes think if I had three wishes, besides money and a long, healthy life with M, the third thing I'd wish for would be Norton's happiness.

And every once in a while, I think, what if something happened? What if something happened to us, and we didn't come home? How would he understand?

My poor doggie. And for all that, when I get home, he'll be delighted to see me.

He's a good dog.