Tag Archives: life as a dog

One dog, shaken, not stirred . . . .

It started out as a normal working-dog day, last Wednesday. Her was home, as she was not feeling well. There was still snow, and if I can feel the cold in my joints and my spine, I know she can, so I laid on the charm, snuggled hard in bed, kept my chin upon her hip, and between my wisdom and the other mom’s insistence, we convinced her staying home and keeping the dog out of the crate resting was in order!

What a stupid idea. No sooner had the other mom left for work than a fog of non-thinking, crazy-making craziness descended upon the house hold. Mom thought to count her medicine, in the darkest room in the house, without actually paying much attention. And then she thought she dropped one, though she wasn’t sure. And because she was already unwell, and lost in a haze of confusion, the logical conclusion was not that she did not drop one but rather that she dropped one, and because I was underfoot (Call me Corbie J. Underfoot!), obviously I partook of the Tramadol.

Because I run around taking medicine off the floor. Because I take my own pills without them having to be buried in treat-goodness.

Oh, right. No, I don’t.

Before my very slightly cataract-ed eyes, she dissolved into panic . . . and then the fun began! She called the other mom for advice, and the other mom said that it was better (BETTER!!) to induce vomiting than to run the risk that I’d over dose on tramadol. (While in general I’d agree, the very idea that I would take the cursed tramadol is absurd, and I don’t know why they both took leave of their senses. Women!)

She poisoned my water. When I wouldn’t drink it — I am not a stupid dog! — she took a syringe and dosed me with the hydrogen peroxide. She tried to make up for that by giving me some toast, but it was burnt. And then she marched me around the house. And then she picked me up and SHOOK ME. And then we went for a walk. What. The. Hell.

Hello! Heart condition? Was this stress test doctor prescribed? No, it was not.

When the other mom finally got home I was GLUED to her side.

Why didn’t she just give me more butter, if she wanted to induce vomiting? That would have been awesome!

I see my doctor tomorrow. You better believe she’s going to hear about this. The dog needs tranquility. Tranquility, and sticks of butter.

It wasn’t my fault!

I was minding my own business, you understand. One of the Moms was making herself lunch, and quite naturally, I was under foot supervising the process. She may have happened to leave a stick of butter on the counter. May have. Being a dog small in stature, if large in heart, I had no chance of reaching the counter, and anyways, I am a good dog. There’s no way I would have sought that delicious rectangle of creamy delight stick of butter on my own.

Well.

Maybe. Maybe, just to let Mom know that it was left out.

But then . . . well. The cats, you see. Gathered around it. Going on and on and on about how delicious it was . . . and then, maybe one happened to knock it on the floor. Maybe a dog might have happened to try a lick, to see what all the hub-bub was about.

Maybe a dog couldn’t help himself when he grabbed the delicious creamy rectangle of heavenly delight and ran off with it.

Mom saved roughly a tablespoon of it from its ill fate. Unfortunately, this did nothing to save my stomach from the upset to come later. . . and now the Moms keep calling me Mr. Butterworth, and Butterball, and Corbie J. ButterBane!

I shun them both!

Treatment — Week One

That word does not mean what one might think it would mean . . .

I am one full week into my new regiment of pharmaceutical therapy, and so far I can report that my health is well. Thanks to my recent pedicure, I’m happily running around and getting underfoot, now that they can’t hear me coming, so that’s been fun.

I am not happy with the amount of food I have not been getting. Not one single of the humans that decided I needed to lose weight are under 80lbs, so excuse me if a dog might think that they’re being a bit hypocritical. At least I’m still allowed my carrots and lettuce, but no more table scraps? Because I gained two whole pounds? Women! I tell you . . .

(Er. Don’t tell A Lady I said that!)

My second least favorite thing has been being pulled out of nice, warm, happy bed in the middle of the night, shoved into a harness, and thrust outside into the cold, dark, rainy air. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I am afraid of the dark. I simply do not want to be out in in, where I can’t see well, where things are waiting to get me. Like bears. And Neech.

I was fawned over and pampered for a few days after my visit, but now the Moms are back to, “No, Corbie,” and “Get down, Corbie,” and “Don’t chase Luna, Corbie.”

Happily, I do not think they know that I do understand English . . .