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:
       http://www.geocities.com/SouthBeach/Shores/6572/Peek.html
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 
 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 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 
 it."
 
 The dog, watching from the corner, doesn't look very worried to me.