One year ago next month, my dog left her tail at the veterinarian's office.
Without going into the reasons that are now quite obvious regarding my new awareness of not choosing a dog from the local newspaper under 'Absolutely Free', this tale (sorry, Isabella, no pun intended) begins eleven years ago when I selected the German Shepherd mix from a small Lafayette home. I stepped into her life heroically and took her home in a microwave box in the front seat of my 1990 Grand Am. The cutest grey eyes ever, I was convinced.

Shortly after, I planned our first trip to the Wildcat Creek for initiation (i.e- submersion into water, to see if she had what it took to be called 'my dog', which she ultimately passed quite easily, I should say). My first indication that she was no normal canine should have occurred to me that afternoon when we were winding through the trees in the car on our way to the big adventure as she jumped from window to window in the back seat sniffing at the air. Now a 1990 Pontiac Grand Am's back windows only roll down about halfway, but that was quite enough for Isabella because as the car sped around one of the many curves, she tumbled out the window into the street. I watched in horror and wonder in my rearview mirror as she bounced on the road behind me. She was unharmed, miraculously, and we continued on our way to the water.

So the issue of the tail comes as no real surprise:
age + tail cyst + dog who enjoys chewing on it's own body more than I'm comfortable with = $800 vet bill to remove the tail and 11 months of follow up appointments with continued disbelief that she's still chewing on the 4 inch nub.

Man's best friend, my ass.