Are you smiling? Cute pictures of dogs make me smile. I can’t help it. My husband rolls his eyes when a commercial comes on with a cute puppy. He knows my reaction – my heart melts.

We were the owners of a beautiful Shiba Inu, named Katya, for 17 years. She resembled a red fox with a curly tail. She was an adventurer with her own doggie passport containing stamps from Russia, Greece, and America.

Katya entered our lives when our son left Russia, abandoning us to begin college in America. Our daughter begged for a dog to replace her brother. We finally agreed, believing buying a dog would be less trouble than birthing or adopting another son. We purchased Katya in Alaska, then took her on the ride of her life to Russia.

The first time Katya experienced her “season,” we discovered 99% of the dogs in our neighborhood were male. Very virile unleashed males. As I watched my daughter running around the playground holding Katya above her head, a tornado of love-struck dogs whirling around her legs, I knew I had to take drastic measures. After I quit laughing.

I stopped by the vet’s office where the assistant took our address and said the vet would stop by the next day to talk about spaying Katya. This didn’t surprise me, as vets and doctors often make house calls in Russia. I figured he’d examine Katya, then make an appointment to come to the office for the surgery.

The next afternoon, the vet rang our doorbell. He did a cursory exam, asked a few questions, and then requested a newspaper. Being a polite hostess, I left the room to get him one. I thought maybe he wanted to go to the balcony for a smoke and needed some reading material.

Returning to the living room, I was horrified to see Katya staggering around the room in circles, then collapsing on the floor. She sprawled on the rug, eyes glazed, tongue hanging out, resembling a tranquilized tiger on a National Geographic special.

As I stared at my immobilized dog, the doctor reached in his briefcase and pulled out the tools of his trade: an empty glass mayonnaise jar, assorted scalpels, and a bottle of vodka. He sterilized his hands and instruments with vodka, placed the scalpels in the mayo jar, then instructed me to spread the newspaper on the kitchen table.

In a state of shock, I turned to my husband and daughter for support, only to discover they had fled the room.

 

It was me, Katya and the vet.

 

Once the vet had most of Katya’s innards exposed, (there wasn’t just a tiny cut on her tummy, for some reason he cut into each of her sides and pulled stuff out) he struck up a conversation with me. He spoke English and wanted to practice with a native speaker.

Averting my eyes from the blood and gore, I tried to oblige and provide some English practicum. “How long have you been a vet?”

“Oh, I’m not a vet. Castrating animals is my hobby.”

“Your hobby?” I asked in a horrified whisper.

“Yes, I’m actually an anesthesiologist at the city hospital. I just moonlight doing castrations,” he replied as he began reassembling Katya.

I couldn’t stop myself. I had to ask the next question. “Do you perform all your surgeries on the kitchen table at people’s homes?”

“Just the small animals,” he grunted as he stitched up Katya’s side. “Saint Bernards are too big to do at home, so I use the operating table at the hospital where I work.”

My jaw dropped to the floor. I envisioned lying on an operating table in a drug-induced haze, watching chunks of Saint Bernard hair floating lazily through the air, highlighted by the operating room lights.

At long last, the agony ended. Katya was restored to one piece and began banging her head on the table as she came out of the anesthesia. The vet took his leave, promising to return to check on the Katya the next day. He came and checked on her two more times and removed her stitches. His fee for torture rendered came to $12.00.

 

Katya survived.

 

Me…. I still suffer recurring nightmares about cold steel operating tables and a Saint Bernard reading a newspaper while wearing a surgical mask.