The One-Eyed Wonder

 

Hubby and I recently said goodbye to our sweet, stubborn, geriatric Black lab.  Zoey.  She just kept on tickin' through arthritis, doggy vertigo, whacked out vertebrae, and living with one eye. Her tale wagged even when she hurt.  Our friend was not wrong when he said her tail would wag up until the end.

Several years ago, we noticed that Zoey's right eye didn't reflect light. She had glaucoma.  And then we realized that her eye kept...bulging out, more and more.  And, (contrary to Kindergarten Cop), it was a tumor. The tumor had to go.  And that meant the eye had to go with it.

The poor dog struggled the first couple of days.  She paced the floor in her cone of shame, whimpering.  She'd lay down and get up, trying to get comfy.  And then she had to learn how to navigate with one eye instead of two.  She never did really learn.  It was part of her charm.

We called her the "One-Eyed Wonder." It was a mixture of love, affection, and gentle mockery. And wonder--because she did just keep on going, tail thwumping against the door, waving in the air, accelerating with anticipation as she waited for us to "accidentally" drop treats for her on the floor. 

Last week, as my headaches were so bad, I thought I might become the next one-eyed wonder.  For two days, the headache settled immediately behind my right eye, the pressure building. I felt my eye bulging. I envisioned it, mostly jokingly but at times in earnest, as popping right on out.

Thankfully, my eye has stayed in place.  It has not fled its socket of its own volition, or, like poor Zoey, had surgical assistance in its journey to somewhere...else.