Coneheads in our midst

I drove home this morning with a conehead in the car, and neither one of us was particularly happy about the situation.

I had to pick up the dog from the vet, where Hopeful got some shots and had a little operation, which means she's definitely my dog now. (She has known for weeks that she was a permanent part of the family, but the rest of us were a little slower to catch on.) She came home wearing one of those plastic cones around her head to keep her from chewing her stitches, and she does not care for it one bit. I had a terrible time getting her to hop up into the back of the van, and then the whole way home my rear-view mirror was filled with the reflection of Hopeful's head looking out of that silly cone with an expression of sheer mortification.

She seemed happy to get home, but she's spent most of the day hiding under the back deck, perhaps embarrassed to be seen in such gauche garb. The vet wants us to keep the plastic cone on her head for 10 days, but I don't know if we'll be able to stand it that long. She's not growling or barking or whining or complaining; she just looks at me with a pleading expression and then turns around and crawls back under the deck.

I can't say that I blame her. If someone made me walk around with a plastic cone over my head, I would want to hide. Hey, maybe she wouldn't feel so awkward if we all wore plastic cones on our heads!

You first.