Woody
02-15-2005, 01:34 PM
HOW STUPID CAN YOU BE?
Today's column will be about stupidity. Not my dog's, not Dave's, not even those poor, misguided people who purchase their dogs from pet stores. No, this will be an exclusive about MY stupidity. Aren't you glad you're a subscriber and you get the scoop on this first? And when I say "subscriber", I mean an unsolicited, "how do I get off this damn list?", reluctant reader.
When you first bring home a puppy, one of the first things you are taught is to "puppy proof" your home. This typically means to remove anything that is within the height at which your puppy can stand on his back legs like a bear. Depending on your breed of dog, this can sometimes mean the height of your baseboards or the height of the Brad Pitt poster on your wal…..I mean the height of your light switches. If you don't want it to be eaten, frayed, slimed, pooped on, worn as a puppy fedora, or buried in the backyard as a future food supply, PUT IT AWAY. There are some items, though, that you just don't think of or that you SWEAR your fingerless pup can't possibly open, untie, unwrap, or disengage in any way, shape or form. I swear that even without fingers, Newman could make an origami ship-in-a-bottle.
I keep, shall we say, a prescription on my bedside table. I shan't name these diminutive, little pills because my father reads these childish epistles and, endearingly, he still suffers from "Daddy's Little Girl/Head in the Sand" syndrome. Let's just saaaay that they're green, they're encased in a 21-day circular pattern and that my father also suffers from "I'm Never Going to be a Grandpa" syndrome. These…ummm…placebos are tucked under the ledge of my table and usually covered up by a book (in much the same manner that us gals will hide our bras from our doctors, even though he is about to give us our yearly naked physical).
I awaken to start another day by scratching Dave and kissing Newman. (It's still bloody early and I will rectify that reversal of affections after a sugar doughnut and some coffee.) I commence my morning ablutions with a shower and am belting out Broadway show tunes in no time. I exit the shower and hear that Dave has already started showering in the ensuite bathroom. After toweling off, I walk back into our bedroom and I freeze in my footsteps with that horrified, "what am I looking at and why won't my brain register it?" expression. My "placebos" and their packaging have mysteriously left a hurricane trail across our bedroom and, as I follow this estrogen map, it predictably leads me to a very proud and pleased chocolate lab puppy-from-hell in the corner. He's making that same repetitive motion with his tongue that he makes when he has peanut butter on it. You know, that constant "aacking" you do when your tongue is trying to escape your mouth, as if it were merely attached by Velcro. After some quick math, I discover that, of a 21-day package that I had just started, about 10 were missing. Jiminey Crickets….what does one do? Do I call my vet or do I call my ob-gyn? Is this a harmless digestion or is Newman going to turn into Ru Paul and sign an endorsement contract for M*A*C Cosmetics?
It should come as no surprise that our vet's telephone number is the first speedcall button programmed into our abundance of phones. Our home phone, my cell, Dave's cell, my work phone and I also rewired that Roadside Assistance button in our car to dial Dr. Carter instead of the AMA. I frantically explained to Dr. Carter's animal health technician what Newman had done, while craftily outlining that I had not moronically left the pills out, but that Newman had mastered pulling open my drawer, popped all the teeny pills through the tinfoil backing with his dew claw and washed them down with bottled water from the fridge. Labs are brilliant creatures and she unquestioningly accepted this explanation.
It may one day be helpful for you to know that this particular type of drug can indeed harm your puppy in the form of stunted bone development. It can also take on the form of your pup wanting to hear more Elton John and Michael Bolton, but I digress. I am told by the technician that I have to make Newman throw up and outside of forcing him to watch the Liza Minnelli/David Gest wedding video, I don't know how to do this. But you may some day thank me for this truly helpful tip: One teaspoon of salt down your puppy's throat will have him throwing up things back from when he was still sucking on a teet. For a brief moment, I thought Newman was part bovine and that he was expelling from all six of his stomachs, but it turns out that he had merely been eating Wally's food for a week as well.
Please rest assured that Newman is perfectly fine, although he understandably won't eat French fries, potato chips, or salted peanuts anymore. And he tries to hide in the crawl space under the stairs when he sees that I have a spoon in my hand. But more importantly, I learned a valuable lesson from this distressing experience, because I would never have forgiven myself if something untoward had happened to my little Labradorable. And the lesson is this: Never, EVER allow anything to transpire in your home that will result in Michael Bolton music being played on your stereo. Oh, and even if you live a long and prosperous life and bear a football team of children, always tell your dad that those little green pills-in-a-disk are iron supplements.
Today's column will be about stupidity. Not my dog's, not Dave's, not even those poor, misguided people who purchase their dogs from pet stores. No, this will be an exclusive about MY stupidity. Aren't you glad you're a subscriber and you get the scoop on this first? And when I say "subscriber", I mean an unsolicited, "how do I get off this damn list?", reluctant reader.
When you first bring home a puppy, one of the first things you are taught is to "puppy proof" your home. This typically means to remove anything that is within the height at which your puppy can stand on his back legs like a bear. Depending on your breed of dog, this can sometimes mean the height of your baseboards or the height of the Brad Pitt poster on your wal…..I mean the height of your light switches. If you don't want it to be eaten, frayed, slimed, pooped on, worn as a puppy fedora, or buried in the backyard as a future food supply, PUT IT AWAY. There are some items, though, that you just don't think of or that you SWEAR your fingerless pup can't possibly open, untie, unwrap, or disengage in any way, shape or form. I swear that even without fingers, Newman could make an origami ship-in-a-bottle.
I keep, shall we say, a prescription on my bedside table. I shan't name these diminutive, little pills because my father reads these childish epistles and, endearingly, he still suffers from "Daddy's Little Girl/Head in the Sand" syndrome. Let's just saaaay that they're green, they're encased in a 21-day circular pattern and that my father also suffers from "I'm Never Going to be a Grandpa" syndrome. These…ummm…placebos are tucked under the ledge of my table and usually covered up by a book (in much the same manner that us gals will hide our bras from our doctors, even though he is about to give us our yearly naked physical).
I awaken to start another day by scratching Dave and kissing Newman. (It's still bloody early and I will rectify that reversal of affections after a sugar doughnut and some coffee.) I commence my morning ablutions with a shower and am belting out Broadway show tunes in no time. I exit the shower and hear that Dave has already started showering in the ensuite bathroom. After toweling off, I walk back into our bedroom and I freeze in my footsteps with that horrified, "what am I looking at and why won't my brain register it?" expression. My "placebos" and their packaging have mysteriously left a hurricane trail across our bedroom and, as I follow this estrogen map, it predictably leads me to a very proud and pleased chocolate lab puppy-from-hell in the corner. He's making that same repetitive motion with his tongue that he makes when he has peanut butter on it. You know, that constant "aacking" you do when your tongue is trying to escape your mouth, as if it were merely attached by Velcro. After some quick math, I discover that, of a 21-day package that I had just started, about 10 were missing. Jiminey Crickets….what does one do? Do I call my vet or do I call my ob-gyn? Is this a harmless digestion or is Newman going to turn into Ru Paul and sign an endorsement contract for M*A*C Cosmetics?
It should come as no surprise that our vet's telephone number is the first speedcall button programmed into our abundance of phones. Our home phone, my cell, Dave's cell, my work phone and I also rewired that Roadside Assistance button in our car to dial Dr. Carter instead of the AMA. I frantically explained to Dr. Carter's animal health technician what Newman had done, while craftily outlining that I had not moronically left the pills out, but that Newman had mastered pulling open my drawer, popped all the teeny pills through the tinfoil backing with his dew claw and washed them down with bottled water from the fridge. Labs are brilliant creatures and she unquestioningly accepted this explanation.
It may one day be helpful for you to know that this particular type of drug can indeed harm your puppy in the form of stunted bone development. It can also take on the form of your pup wanting to hear more Elton John and Michael Bolton, but I digress. I am told by the technician that I have to make Newman throw up and outside of forcing him to watch the Liza Minnelli/David Gest wedding video, I don't know how to do this. But you may some day thank me for this truly helpful tip: One teaspoon of salt down your puppy's throat will have him throwing up things back from when he was still sucking on a teet. For a brief moment, I thought Newman was part bovine and that he was expelling from all six of his stomachs, but it turns out that he had merely been eating Wally's food for a week as well.
Please rest assured that Newman is perfectly fine, although he understandably won't eat French fries, potato chips, or salted peanuts anymore. And he tries to hide in the crawl space under the stairs when he sees that I have a spoon in my hand. But more importantly, I learned a valuable lesson from this distressing experience, because I would never have forgiven myself if something untoward had happened to my little Labradorable. And the lesson is this: Never, EVER allow anything to transpire in your home that will result in Michael Bolton music being played on your stereo. Oh, and even if you live a long and prosperous life and bear a football team of children, always tell your dad that those little green pills-in-a-disk are iron supplements.