IJMC - The Poor Pooch
It's not like this dog can help it's problem...and given the description,
it probably thinks that everything's a game. But hey, so long as
someone's having fun, right? Well, here's a cute little web page to go
look at. I think it's worth the visit:
No relation to me or anyone selling anything as far as I can tell, it's
just cute. Stay tuned, more IJMC to come... -dave
My dog has to take these pills. She has something wrong with her
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 Lord! 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
The dog, watching from the corner, doesn't look very worried to me.