Logan
02-14-2003, 01:49 PM
My Dog has to Take These Pills
Copyright 1999 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com
* Please do not remove the copyright from this essay *
My dog has to take these pills. She has something wrong with her
gastrointestinal tract.
The gastrointestinal tract of a dog represents all that I find
objectionable about the species. From the teeth that chew the toes
out of my shoes, the wet tongue that awakens me at 6:00 AM on a
Saturday, the throat which produces frantic barking when the neighbors
commit the crime of walking in their own driveway, the stomach which
made room for an entire leg of lamb on Easter when I left the room for
half an hour, to the production center which plops dog stools all over
the back yard---I don't want her gastrointestinal tract cured, I want
it REMOVED.
Don't get me wrong, I am genuinely fond of my dog, the only creature
in the house who treats me with something other than contempt.
Me: "No one is going anywhere until the garage is cleaned
up!"
Children: "We hate you!"
Dog: Wag wag wag.
The dog's current affliction made itself known to me one night with
the sound of a balloon being released. I opened my eyes, half
expecting to see my dog flying around the room in circles until
totally deflated. Instead, I was treated to the olfactory equivalent
of a hydrogen bomb--it was as if our bedroom had become the staging
area for Saddam Hussein's biological warfare program.
"Oh my God! Get out! Get out!" I shouted.
"You always blame the dog," my wife mumbled.
I assumed that what the kids soon came to refer to as the dog's "butt
blasters" would pass once whatever she had eaten, roadkill or my new
suit or the couch in the basement, had found its way down the
alimentary canal and out onto my lawn. When, after a few days, this
proved not to be the case, I took the dog to the vet and was given
some pills to administer twice a day.
The vet's instructions made the process of giving medicine to a dog
sound pretty easy: open her mouth, pitch the tablet onto the back of
her tongue, and stroke her throat until she swallows.
The reality is that administering a pill to a dog is like trying to
give a root canal to a great white shark. The process starts with
opening the medicine bottle, which alerts the dog that the games are
about to begin. She sits upright, ears cocked, lips slightly drawn
back to remind me that she has relatives in Africa who are pulling
down water buffalo. I approach my pet with a piece of limp bologna in
my hand to disguise the existence of the capsule of anti-butt blaster
medication, making friendly "I'm not going to give you a pill" sounds.
She doesn't buy it. Her ears drop back flat against her skull and
she slinks to the ground, eyes cold as they dart from me to couch,
gauging the gap even as I maneuver to close it. "Want some bologna?"
I suggest.
At the sound of my voice she explodes into action, streaking across
the floor. The kids lunge from the kitchen, cutting off that avenue.
She brakes and swerves and I dive, rolling on the carpet. I grab
fruitlessly at the air. With a click of teeth, the bologna vanishes,
the pill bouncing away. A lamp crashes over as I come to a stop.
The few times I have managed to grip her by the jaws and force the
medicine down her throat, it has come firing back out as if shot from
a pellet gun. Worse, the exertion triggers the very symptom the pills
are supposed to address, so that I am caught trying to run around the
room without BREATHING. The children abandon me at this point,
leaving me alone with the butt blaster. When I finally am forced to
inhale, my eyes tear so badly I can no longer see my adversary.
Frankly, I don't think the dog WANTS to get better. This is the same
animal who delights in rolling in dead squirrel parts, so that her fur
is imbued with a stench is so powerful every canine in the
neighborhood howls with envy. Whenever she rattles the room with a
butt blaster, her eyes take on a radiant gleam, a "hey, that was my
best one yet!" expression which is undiminished by the fact that the
rest of her family is gagging and falling to the floor.
My son claims to have an idea which will solve our problem. I'm not
sure what he has in mind, but when I told him I was ready to try
anything he began assembling a pile of tools which included his
slingshot and a fifty foot garden hose. Now he is filling water
balloons with beef bullion and talking to himself about the "end of
butt blaster as we know it."
The dog, watching from the corner, doesn't look very worried to me.
Write to the author at [email protected]
Copyright 1999 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com
* Please do not remove the copyright from this essay *
My dog has to take these pills. She has something wrong with her
gastrointestinal tract.
The gastrointestinal tract of a dog represents all that I find
objectionable about the species. From the teeth that chew the toes
out of my shoes, the wet tongue that awakens me at 6:00 AM on a
Saturday, the throat which produces frantic barking when the neighbors
commit the crime of walking in their own driveway, the stomach which
made room for an entire leg of lamb on Easter when I left the room for
half an hour, to the production center which plops dog stools all over
the back yard---I don't want her gastrointestinal tract cured, I want
it REMOVED.
Don't get me wrong, I am genuinely fond of my dog, the only creature
in the house who treats me with something other than contempt.
Me: "No one is going anywhere until the garage is cleaned
up!"
Children: "We hate you!"
Dog: Wag wag wag.
The dog's current affliction made itself known to me one night with
the sound of a balloon being released. I opened my eyes, half
expecting to see my dog flying around the room in circles until
totally deflated. Instead, I was treated to the olfactory equivalent
of a hydrogen bomb--it was as if our bedroom had become the staging
area for Saddam Hussein's biological warfare program.
"Oh my God! Get out! Get out!" I shouted.
"You always blame the dog," my wife mumbled.
I assumed that what the kids soon came to refer to as the dog's "butt
blasters" would pass once whatever she had eaten, roadkill or my new
suit or the couch in the basement, had found its way down the
alimentary canal and out onto my lawn. When, after a few days, this
proved not to be the case, I took the dog to the vet and was given
some pills to administer twice a day.
The vet's instructions made the process of giving medicine to a dog
sound pretty easy: open her mouth, pitch the tablet onto the back of
her tongue, and stroke her throat until she swallows.
The reality is that administering a pill to a dog is like trying to
give a root canal to a great white shark. The process starts with
opening the medicine bottle, which alerts the dog that the games are
about to begin. She sits upright, ears cocked, lips slightly drawn
back to remind me that she has relatives in Africa who are pulling
down water buffalo. I approach my pet with a piece of limp bologna in
my hand to disguise the existence of the capsule of anti-butt blaster
medication, making friendly "I'm not going to give you a pill" sounds.
She doesn't buy it. Her ears drop back flat against her skull and
she slinks to the ground, eyes cold as they dart from me to couch,
gauging the gap even as I maneuver to close it. "Want some bologna?"
I suggest.
At the sound of my voice she explodes into action, streaking across
the floor. The kids lunge from the kitchen, cutting off that avenue.
She brakes and swerves and I dive, rolling on the carpet. I grab
fruitlessly at the air. With a click of teeth, the bologna vanishes,
the pill bouncing away. A lamp crashes over as I come to a stop.
The few times I have managed to grip her by the jaws and force the
medicine down her throat, it has come firing back out as if shot from
a pellet gun. Worse, the exertion triggers the very symptom the pills
are supposed to address, so that I am caught trying to run around the
room without BREATHING. The children abandon me at this point,
leaving me alone with the butt blaster. When I finally am forced to
inhale, my eyes tear so badly I can no longer see my adversary.
Frankly, I don't think the dog WANTS to get better. This is the same
animal who delights in rolling in dead squirrel parts, so that her fur
is imbued with a stench is so powerful every canine in the
neighborhood howls with envy. Whenever she rattles the room with a
butt blaster, her eyes take on a radiant gleam, a "hey, that was my
best one yet!" expression which is undiminished by the fact that the
rest of her family is gagging and falling to the floor.
My son claims to have an idea which will solve our problem. I'm not
sure what he has in mind, but when I told him I was ready to try
anything he began assembling a pile of tools which included his
slingshot and a fifty foot garden hose. Now he is filling water
balloons with beef bullion and talking to himself about the "end of
butt blaster as we know it."
The dog, watching from the corner, doesn't look very worried to me.
Write to the author at [email protected]