She’s been on a training break while I’ve been working out how to dial down the apeshits. Because they are really not a funny joke. There are apeshits, and there are apeshits, and hers are really apeshit. So do not laugh at hers.

I am trying here. Banksy is a challenge, and in many things with me and Banksy, we are not quite figuring out how best to keep moving forward. So we’ve been on break, doing some hiking and some swimming and some foundational skills of learning how to quiet one’s brain at opportune times.

During this break, Banksy was scheduled to have a fancy surgery of the delicate female nature. Called laparoscopic ovariectomy, a tiny camera pokes through 2 tiny holes of your doggy’s soft belly, and the ovaries are carefully decimated. The tiny camera and tiny decimator are carefully removed through the tiny holes, and your dog is good as new in a couple days.

Far more humane and invasive than the old skool spay, where a giant incision is incised through muscle and skin and tissue and the entire reproduction kitchen sink and it’s caboodle are yanked out, then the whole thing stitched tight shut. A full hysterectomy, also no laughing matter, and who wants that?

We drove up to the highly recommended vet clinic, an hour from my house, in rush hour traffic full of Teslas and miraculously clean and washed BMW and Mercedes mini suv’s, through Silicon Valley ground zero, to the fancy doctor office, where the fancy doctor would use his fancy camera to pull out Banksy’s ovaries ever so gently, and return her to me by the end of the day, good as new.

Except here’s where we finally caught our break. But not in a good way. The fancy tiny camera scope broke mid first ovary. No picture, no bueno. The doctor all of a sudden working without a net in a blindfold. The only way she could get herself out of that pickle was a giant incision, and pull everything out all old skool.

I was sick. Banksy is now sick. Drugged up and addled and with a huge ass stitch job running up her abdomen. Be-coned and be-shirted, she’s sleeping away the day in a crate in a corner of my living room, which will be her job for the next 2 weeks. No run. No jump. No play. No nothing. Do not disturb that scar or the innards that lie inside her on top of it. A teensy San Andreas sealed with some crazy glue on top of the sutures.

So far, she’s not happy about this arrangement. She would prefer not to have me or the other dogs very near her. Get AWAY, she has expressed. She is carried down the steps to have a potty.

Wish us luck. This is going to be quite an interesting couple of weeks.