2003-06-26
What's That Smell?
"What the frick is that smell?" I ask myself as I sit here reading. Looking to my immediate right, I notice a small black turd sitting quietly on the hardwood floor next to my feet. A gift. From Jake. Apparently he needs to go out and this is His Way of communicating that need.
Lately Jake has become quite fond of the taste of mud. This dog's discriminating palate has determined that mud is the delicacy du jour. While in the yard, he enjoys an hors d'oeuvre of grass clippings, followed by a main course of mud, which he licks from a divet that he has made in the lawn with his paw. Then he shits black turds on my hardwood floors.
Jake is the Miracle Dog. There is some Great Force keeping him alive. Once he ate three-quarters of a 20-pound bag of dog food. I called the vet in a panic after his midsection blew up to the size of Texas. They advised me to give him a teaspoon of hydrogen peroxide every 15 minutes until he started to barf it all up. After the first heave, he moseyed right back into that kitchen and headed straight for that bag of food.
Another time he ate the greater part of a tub of Udder Cream, which, may I say, keeps the knees and elbows silky soft. He opened the jar (no teeth marks - I think he is hiding an opposable thumb)and licked out the contents until they were nearly gone. I came home and wondered at what point he decided he was full of Udder Cream.
Also, he can open cans of soup.
He cannibalized himself on one occasion. He chewed off the end of his tail. Chewed that mother off. Then he took a nap in the hall. When I came home, he couldn't contain his glee and started wagging his tail furiously. It looked like I had a home visit from Charles Manson while I was out. I half-expected to see Die Pig Die written on the wall in tail blood.
And the other two canines aren't any better. Jake's the oldest so he sets the crappy example for his younger brother and sister. Fergus is the one following in his footsteps.
Fergus eats socks. Whole socks. Just sucks 'em right down. Then he shits them out. Every once in a while I'll see him squatting in the yard looking pathetically from side to side for someone to come and rescue him. Because, you see, the sock is stuck in his ass. So I have to put on a surgical glove or bag my hand and go out there and PULL THE FRICKING THING OUT OF HIS ASS. When sphincter muscles just don't cut it, I have to fill in on the job. No wonder I feel the need to tell people frequently that I have a Master's degree.
A few months ago one of these sock things didn't make its way out. After two days of projectile vomiting, I took him to the vet. They did lots of expensive diagnostic tests using special x-rayable pellets to tell me he had a sock stuck in his ass. Actually it was stuck between his stomach and intestine. Two days and $2000 worth of surgery later, I brought him home with a 10 inch incision on his belly and a bile-soaked sock in a baggie. I don't leave the laundry baskets out anymore.
Tess is the only dog in the house who eats only food. And her breath is the foulest. She's had 5 teeth extracted and a good scraping and cleaning, and still her mouth smells like the Grim Reaper ate a bowl of horseshit and is breathing right down your neck. But she really can't help it. When I was volunteering at the local Humane Society, I agreed to take her in as a "foster dog" for a few weeks around Christmastime. (Foster care my ass...like I could give her back) She had been severely neglected and starved and was basically surviving on her own feces. She was so undernourished, you could make out the outline of her entire skeleton through her skin and fur. For weeks I had to sit on the floor with her food bowl in my lap and feed her one nugget at a time until she learned to eat and trust again. She was 9 pounds that December. Today she weighs around 40 pounds. It's amazing to me that after all these years, she still has that memory etched in her brain. She growls and snarls over her bowl every single time she eats. She runs and hides whenever she gets a treat. But she's so grateful to have food, that's all she eats.
Still, a dog can't eat shit during the formative months and have good breath. It just can't happen.
joeparadox at 7:57 a.m.