I’m being stalked! And my stalker has a weapon.

We’ve entered the “lampshade” days once again.

The last time Minor had surgery I swore up and down and all around that I would never subject my aging dog to that again.

It’s been a couple of years (I would think) and, now that he’s passed the ten-year marker, I figured we were in the clear. It seems like so many things are wrong with him that I want us — him and me — to enjoy life while we can. That’s all I asked — as I see to it that he gets regular checkups, laser treatments and, now, an eye specialist as well.

I knew this big puffy thing on his left ear wasn’t as it should be but suspected a bug bite and was willing to wait to see if it receded. Only it didn’t. “Hematoma” said his doctor. That, consulting my dictionary, means it’s full of blood. Trouble in this case was all the nearby infection. Bacteria gone wild!

I was told he’d only be sedated. That was true. He was on his feet as soon as the doctor finished stitching him up — staggering and collapsing after every other step. He needed a big boost to get into the car, did get out on his own and slept away most of the rest of that day.

I was told he’d need the “lampshade.” (I believe the correct title is “Elizabethan collar” but more of us know what fits on a lamp rather than around the neck of an earlier British queen.) “A few days” is what I remember hearing — before the act. Now he’s sentenced to two whole weeks.

I didn’t think Minor would forget his previous lampshade days but it took a good twenty-four hours before he could eat and drink without its getting in his way. Motivation writ large for a dog who’s always hungry!

I hadn’t forgotten the lampshade. I took two along to the doctor. (There’s also a cat-sized one in the attic which I didn’t figure we needed now.) But I had repressed what Minor’s wearing the contraption means to me.

Minor is a dear sweet dog. He is full of love and devotion and eager to share both. When it’s just mostly me, the attention is mine. In that case it means Minor wants to be as close as possible to me at all times.

Dog plus lampshade means OUCH! I bruise very, very easily. Blame it on age — or my dad who was the same. Some just stare. Some are curious and will ask if I had been in an accident. Nope. I’ve stopped the meds that encourage bleeding but am still a walking billboard for black and blue. (They seldom hurt.)

Is the picture becoming clearer?

I take a step. Minor is immediately right beside me. Whack! The edges of one of those lampshades (unbreakable plastic) are too much for my legs.

I thought I’d be safe leaving the dog door open so the cat could go out and back in. That danged collar is twice as wide as the opening in the door.

Minor doesn’t know impossible. Only, trying to sneak back in without being caught in the door, he got stuck. Really stuck. By the time I realized what was going on, he had somehow inverted the collar so it shielded his shoulders, not the head and ears. Whatever I ‘d planned to do next flew out the window as my time went to 1) freeing the dog, 2) removing the collar (I’d tied it on in a knot — natch) and 3) putting it back on the right way.

Fortunately, I had a replacement. It’s hardly shiny and new looking but it’s far better for me. One of the times we needed a collar, I mentioned my bruising and some thoughtful person (wish I could remember who) taped a thick cushion all the way around its edge.

It definitely isn’t pretty. It definitely isn’t perfect.

Wearing a lampshade isn’t perfect either. But we can live with it now.

Just 12 and a half days to go.

Susan Crossett has lived outside Cassadaga for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. “Her Reason for Being” was published in 2008 with “Love in Three Acts” following in 2014. Information on all the Musings, her books and the author may be found at Susancrossett.com. She may also be reached at musingsfromthehill@gmail.com.