Prologue:
This is a non-fiction tale produced from yesterday’s experiences. Some of the circumstances told disclose less than delicate matters. Although some portions of this day retold may be grotesque in the minds of those with weak constitutions; many of the strong (and slightly unruly) may (or may not) have a good chuckle from reading the following tale.
Tale Told:
It all started when we entered the home of the four dogs Katherine was to care for. The drive over had been pleasant enough. We had been grooving and singing along to such songs as “The Deadwood Stage,” “Ain’t We Got Fun,” and some song performed by Bulldog…or Pitbull. All in all, the drive afforded us an entertaining groove and a nice stretch of the vocal cords. We were still laughing and living off the vibe of the “Calamity Jane” tunes as Katherine turned the key in the lock. Our attention was suddenly removed from our happiness as we stepped into the home. Immediately, our nostrils were affronted by a smell of wet-dog, organic cleaner, and doodoo. (I did warn that this story is NOT for the faint-hearted.) Something like a bad attitude began to wash over our beings. “What IS that smell?” “Where are the dogs?” “What IS that smell?!” “Where is the one who is pregnant?” “What is that SMELL?!!” “Which one won’t come back inside?” The dogs were pretty energized to see us as well; one greeted us with a dark growl.
Katherine opened the gate for the pregnant poochie. She (the pregnant poochie) was pretty sweet. I pet her for a bit and then encouraged her to get herself outside rather than choosing to release in the house. The other three dogs soon followed suit. Two out of the four dogs were pleasant enough. They let us pet them. The other two were barking in high, screechy voices. “Just go potty and stop BARKING!” We retreated inside the house hoping this would give them the freedom to take care of business.
After a few minutes we returned to the dogs to find a sickly thing extending from the back end of the smallest dog. You can guess what it was. Hopefully your guess will be accurate because that is what the majority of this story will be about. It was (not for the fainthearted) it was a mound-up- matted-in-hair-thick-stinky-freshly-made piece of canine fecal matter. I tell you, put yourselves in the dog’s position. How would you feel if you were a small, terrier puppy, no more than 4 months old with this thing that could not be removed from you? You would be a bit distressed, I am sure. Wanting to help him, Katherine and I began to massage his rump. This seemed to help a bit, but was not effective enough. Feeling the pressure of time (we had to go to the bank before it closed, to the grocery store for dinner items, and possibly even the library for an item of Katherine’s,) Katherine pulled out a small 5-square piece of toilet paper and passed it to my hand. As she held the dog in mid-air, I tried to remove the stress-giving item. It wasn’t going anywhere. The smell was diffusing and time was running out. Katherine returned the puppy to the earth and we tried to round up the other dogs. Got the pregnant one? Check. Got the troubled one? Check. Got the barker? Check. Got the one who won’t come inside even for its masters? Uuuh…no. Katherine began to call her name. I was trying to jiggle the treats in a bag; trying to lure the blessed animal inside the home so we could leave before the bank closed. This is a disobedient dog. She would not come. We almost had her, but she ran away when she saw us. I told Katherine we would have to leave her outside. We would come back for her after our errands were completed. I tried to comfort Katherine’s fears by assuring her that evil pets never run away. The way of escape evades them, (unlike precious pets who sometimes experience horrible deaths…like death by coyote).
And so we left to return.
It took us no longer than 50 minutes to complete our errands and return to the dogs. We were hoping the evil one had not runaway and that the tootsie log had been defecated. One out of two hopes were ours. As I had foretold, the rebellious one had not runaway. The tootsie roll, however; was still clinging on. If it was possible, it also seemed to have grown. I approached this situation with a resolute soul: get the duty done. Can’t find gloves? Don’t need ‘em. Found some paper towels? Rip a couple and let’s git ‘er done. Before beginning the surgery we let all the dogs out, trying to give the small one a final go at independently relieving himself. From the evidences left on the porch, he seemed to be progressing, but not as we hoped. Katherine began to pressure-massage his intestines once again, but the time had come. The surgery had to begin. I mentally plugged my nostrils before applying my paper-towel-protected fingers to the problem at hand. And then, it was time to finish his business. Once again, Katherine held the poor pooch extended in mid-air. I could feel the tension coursing through the puppy’s body. This was not a story to tell his litter-mates. As I began pulling and poking at the hardened fecal matter, I suddenly felt myself begin to transform into a vet. This was no longer a disgusting situation, but an interesting circumstance of life. I did not want to hurt my patient. I pulled on. It didn’t really seem to move. I didn’t know how hard to pull. I didn’t want to hurt the poor canine’s body. And yet, I continued pulling until the mission was accomplished. The puppy seemed to be SO relieved. Still in my vet mind mode, I inspected him to be sure all would be well. From my pretty extensive knowledge of dog anatomy, all seemed to be well. Katherine, once again, returned him to the earth and admired the success of our surgery. Our patient had been restored to a full and happy life.
As an act of great benevolence, we let them play for some moments. Mr. Pooper was jumping right back into life and the pregnant dog just wanted to be pet. We accommodated them both. After awhile, we decided it was time to pack the four up again. The rebellious dog was resolute as ever. She would not enter the house. We jiggled the bag of treats. We left the door wide open. We waited. At last, entered she; the disobedient doggy. “Close the door!!” Katherine yelled in a whisper. I obeyed. I was no longer in vet mode, but stealth, mission impossible mode; still the motivational motto remained: “git ‘er done!”
We had secured our target in the home, but it was necessary to get her into the kennel area. We did not have a plan of attack for fear she would attack us. A dog’s bite is better than her bark. Without a word, Katherine and I moved as a team of cowboy hands gathering up their posse. We held her in a corner, but paused to think of our next step.
We could just grab her, get bitten, put her in the kennel, and go. (Katherine was willing; I didn’t want to touch the dirty dog.)
We could lure her with treats. (She wasn’t accepting the treats.)
We could lasso her with a leash and lead her to the kennel. (Once a leash was located it was a brilliant idea.)
And so, that is just what we did. Katherine found a leash, lassoed it around her neck, and led her into the kennel. I made sure to supply her with some treats. I did feel as if we needed to establish friendly relations. Always room for a bit of political niceties.
And so, there is our doggly adventure. Probably not TRULY worth the reading, but it afforded me the chance to write a story. Just remember, if ever you are in need call the one’s who know:
Canine Country Comfort – Where your dog comes home to the country!
