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Monday, October 25, 2004

How NOT to medicate your dog...

Let me preface this by saying that I own the world's most expensive "FREE" dog. Couple that with the fact that she is, by far, the most spoiled creature in history and you have the makings of a new reality show. I know that most of you think that you have this department covered in spades with your own four-legged, furry children, but I'm telling you now, that in my next life, I have applied to come back as my OWN dog. Her life is fabulous, pampered, and luxurious.

Since her entrance into our family 6 years ago, this "FREE" dog has cost us upwards of, well, now that I think of it; a semester of tuition. She has allergies and a thyroid condition. As a result, she is on antigen and thyroid therapy. That's right folks, this little black puck of a creature gets allergy shots and thyroid meds on a regular basis. Her condition is such that she loses all the hair on her back end, resulting in what for all intents and purposes looks like baboon butt. It's not pretty. Charlie complains how he could give her up in a heartbeat for all the money she's cost us, yet he's the first one she greets when he walks through the door after work and their afternoon "love fests" are a sight to behold. I sometimes feel like the third wheel. She's thoroughly loved and she knows it.

I usually disguise her meds inside of a piece of hot dog in order to get her to take them. This happens two times a day. She's a smart little shit, and so lately, she's been turning her nose up at frankfurters. I've played this little game with her where I sit down with a bowl of food and pretend to eat it in order to get her interest and make her think that whatever it is I've got, she wants. This morning, she wasn't having any of it. She spit out the scrambled egg. She spit out the piece of cheese. She spit out the ice cream. She even spit out a piece of leftover tri-tip. I had pretty much gone through whatever was in the fridge, short of shoving a block of butter down her face. She finally decided to run under the bed and hide from me.

The gauntlet was dropped. We were at war.

I pulled her out from under Averie's bed, only to have her escape from my grasp and run into Caris' room and under her bed. An easy task for a small dog. Not so easy for me. It's like a mine field in there. The floor is strewn with clothes, photo albums, CDs, school books, makeup. I find myself on the floor, on my tummy, reaching into the darkness under her bed, toward two little eyes, flopping around to find a paw, grabbing, and pulling, yet again just to have her escape down the hall and into another room. As I leave each room, I'm remembering now why I close kids bedroom doors. Not necessarily because of the dog, but because DAMN those kids are pigs. Who's their mother anyway? Didn't she teach them better? God forbid some family member should pop in unexpectedly and utter the very same words, only to have me respond under my breath; "Oh, bite me."

FINALLY, I catch the elusive canine. She wriggles and wraggles as I sit her down on my lap and try desperately to shove a green and white capsule into her mouth. I get it in and do everything short of swallow the damn thing for her myself. I beg, I rub her throat while I hold her snout, I tell her how much I love her and how it's for her own good. Then, I feel her stop struggling, and suddenly she swallows. I'm awash with relief and I let go. At which, she opens her mouth, gags it out, and runs. Oh no you didn't you little bitch! And I say that in the most proper of female doggie endearments, of course. I grab her quickly by the tail and take the now gooey little capsule and try to shove it back in her mouth. She clamps down like a mischievous child and half the capsule is now lodged between her front teeth. Before I could react, she pulls her head back and POOF! She and I are both covered with a white, sulfery powder. It's everywhere. And it smells horrible. Rotten eggs.

She sits back and looks at me. I look back at her. I know she's wondering what my next plan of attack will be, but all I can think to do is laugh. I put her down on the couch pillow and get my camera. I'm too tired to try this again. I'll wait until Charlie gets home. Perhaps he can schmooze her into it. He seems to be able to get her to do anything no one else can. She wins. For now. But just wait until she tries to get under my bedcovers tonight.


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