What a great story Scott...I was having a great chuckle over this, as I'm sure all our dog-owner relatives have! ha. Brought back wonderful memories of "SPOOK"!!! ha. Love K. ----- Original Message ----- From: "Scott MacLean" <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> To: "Georgetown Crew Mailing List" <[EMAIL PROTECTED]>; "MacLean List" <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> Sent: Friday, February 14, 2003 10:29 PM Subject: Butt Blaster
> Copyright 1999 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com > > * Please do not remove the copyright from this essay * > > 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 God! 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. > > _______________________ > Scott MacLean > [EMAIL PROTECTED] > ICQ: 9184011 > http://www.nerosoft.com > >
