We felt on tenterhooks, knowing that the veterinarian surgeon was expected to be present at the clinic in the early afternoon, Riley's surgery to take place at half-past one. We knew from previous experience that this man was talented at what he did, and he would contact us personally to brief us on the outcome of the operation, since it was he who had operated on Riley almost seven years ago. It was almost three in the afternoon and I couldn't resist the impulse to call, to at least speak with someone there.

I felt much relieved being informed the surgery had concluded, Riley was in the recovery room, and the doctor would call shortly. He did, less than ten minutes later and both my husband I were on the telephone with him, hearing his cheerful voice, his reassurances that all had gone well and his confidence that he had succeeded, despite the lipomas' numbers and bodily dispersals, managed to remove 98% of them. We wouldn't recognize our little charge, he promised. Small as Riley is, as a toy poodle breed, almost two pounds of sheer fat deposit had been removed.

No, he reiterated, it's nothing such dogs who are predisposed through genetics to grow these lipomas, eat; they tend not to be overweight dogs, but of good conformation and weight, like Riley. It's one of those imponderables. We thanked him profusely, and were later informed through another call from the clinic from another veterinarian who had occasionally seen to the well-being of our little dogs that pick-up time was scheduled for 7:30 p.m.

At the clinic last evening, we spoke at some length with a technician who prepared us for Riley's needs over the next several weeks. There was a letter of instruction/advice from the surgeon, there was the protocol we would use over the next week or two to help make him comfortable, and aid his progress in recovery. Give him food and drink if he wanted it. Be prepared that he might vomit at first. His wounds would bleed, and he had two drains installed in two areas, his stomach and one of his legs, to enable the wounds to drain. They would be removed in a week at most, perhaps days if his recovery was good enough.

We were to return with Riley on Monday for a follow-up check of his progress. There would be another appointment in two weeks' time to complete the progress check. He was to have eight drops of Metacam administered preferably in his food once a day, and 10mg tablets of Tramadol, an opioid for pain management, every eight hours for seven days.

And then Riley was brought out to us, dazed from anaesthetic and painkiller, and the physical trauma he had suffered through the surgery. He was wrapped in a large fluffy towel, to catch the blood and liquids that seeped from the shunts, and placed in my arms. He lifted his head to look at us and began whimpering. Everything had been taken care of, the itemized bill presented and scrutinized and paid; the toll roughly $1000 per pound of fat removed, a complicated procedure given the extent of the lipoma growth.

And then followed the evening and the night from hell. Riley handled with exquisite care, his wounds so extensive and so painful we winced in pain ourselves in sympathy with what he was experiencing, and attempted to do our best to comfort the little creature who shares our lives. Swiftly a technique was developed whereby he could be picked up or held to best avoid those hugely sensitive areas.

Although at first he rejected eating anything, drinking anything, despite being offered his favourite food, he eventually came around to hungrily lapping up a small bowl of creamed cottage cheese and asking for more. He had some of his kibble, but rejected cooked chicken. He was hungry, he ate, and nothing was thrown up. Eating seemed to make him feel better for a short period. And then the whimpering resumed.

Before taking him to bed he was given the first opioid tablet. We hoped that it would give him some relief, enough to enable him to fall asleep and begin the healing process, since it was evident he was physically exhausted. But it was not to be. No sleep last night, but continuous manifestations of pain and discomfort. Conditions which we were fated to share.