Dog Dialogues

Our conversation today centers on a piece of dried rawhide, approximately 1 3/4″ by 3″, which is lodged in Gracie’s throat.  She is unable to swallow it or cough it up, and she doesn’t exactly want me to know of her distress.  She sits in her ‘box”, quietly clearing her throat, saying, in effect, “Ahem…”  This scene repeats itself pretty much every day.  The way I know there’s something wrong with her is that she’s not panting, which she does virtually all the time.  She needs to turn down her idle.

Although we freely give Gracie these rawhide chips, she thinks we want to take them back from her.  She runs off by herself to consume them.  She coyly hides them in  her mouth if we come into her room.  She continues to worry that we’re going to revoke them while they’re stuck in her throat.  Thus, once I understand the nature of her distress, she resists my efforts to force open her jaws, so that I can 1) see if there’s leather in there, and 2) if there is, reach down her throat and remove it.

Gracie:  (Ahem.)

Me:  “Come here.  Let me look in there.  Dammit, open your mouth so I can see…”

Gracie:  (Seriously, there is nothing…[gagging]  Get your FINGERS out of my THROAT!)

Me (removing the chew):  “Jeesh.  Look at this.  Would you PLEASE chew this up before you swallow it again?”

Gracie (transfixed): (That’s mine.)

She takes the slimy chunk and immediately swallows it, and again it gets stuck.

Gracie (looking askance):  (Ahem.)

Me:  “Come here.”

Again I remove the chip, and again she swallows it and gets it stuck in her throat.

Me:  “Come here.”

I remove the chip for the last time.

Gracie:  (That’s mine.)

Me:  “You’re done with this one.”

Gracie:  (Why are you so mean all the time?)

Me: “I may be mean, but I am not trying to take back your chip.”

Gracie:  (You said “chip.”)

Me:  “Go on, pack up your little things.  We’re taking you back to the pound.  Don’t want you anymore…”

Gracie:  (You are kidding and you do not mean that and you are mean.)

Me:  “Seriously, we’re taking you back.  We don’t need an old black dog anymore.  Ten years of you is enough for anyone.  Go on, pack up your little things.  Say goodbye to your mom.”

Gracie:  (What is a pound?)

Me:  “You’re lucky.”

Gracie (expectantly): (Gimme something!!)

Me:  “Go away.  Raus! That’s German for get outta here.  My dad used to say that all the time to our dogs when I was a kid.  It means get in your box.” (For nine of Gracie’s 10 years, the referenced ‘box’ is nothing more than the corner where her puppy crate used to be located.  She acts as if we can’t get her when she lies there, like there’s some invisible barrier between her and us.)

Gracie (clearly ignoring me):  (Gimme something!  Two somethings!)

Me (measured tones):  “No.  Get in your box, leave me alone, you’ve already had a you-know-what and you’re not getting anything else.  Nothing else, not today.”

Gracie (abashed, lying down at my feet):  (Well, you’re not yelling.  There’s that…)

Me:  “The reason you weigh 85 pounds is that you’re unbearable when you’ve decided it’s time for one, and we disagree on that subject.  That’s when you’re a real pain.  Like right this minute.”

Gracie (lying with her muzzle on my feet): (One what?)

Me:  “Don’t be obtuse, and stop trying to manipulate me.  You know one what.  Mom thinks it’s my fault you’re fat, and she’s right, only because I have to be with you 9 hours more each day than she does.  You are the gaping maw, the bottomless pit, the black hole.  You could eat an entire 17 pound bag of dog chow, throw up, and eat half of another.  I’m really sorry you’re hungry all the time, but I’m not giving you a treat.”

Gracie (hope renewed):  (You said “treat.”)

Me (sighing):  “OK.  But here’s the deal.  You gotta take it outside, and you gotta stay outside for at least 15 minutes.  Deal?”

Gracie (rejoicing): (Deal!  Deal!  I get something to take outside.  Deal!  Deal!)

I let her out with her biscuit.  One minute later she’s pawing at the door.

Me (letting her in):  “In your box, liar.”

Gracie (slinking):  (You’re mean.)

*  *  *

Me:  “Let’s go.”

Gracie (ecstatic):  (Yeah let’s go, let’s go right now, Look!  I’m running around in circles, oops I crashed into the coffee table, put on the leash put on the leash, get a bag, you need a bag, put on the leash.)

Me:  “Settle down, dammit.”

Gracie:  (We’re on a walk.  A long walk.  And we’re going swimming.)

Me:  “Just around the block, tonight.  It’s too hot out here.” (I’m not telling her she’s not going swimming because, in order to do so, I would have to say the word ’swimming’, which would get her going big time.)

Gracie:  (I need to pee.  I need to smell peepee to pee.  Where is the peepee?  Not here, not here, not here not here not here nothere notherenotherenothere…)

Me:  “Just PEE already, wouldja?  Why do you need to smell something frigging NASTY before you can go?  There’s dog pee everywhere on this street!  You need a whiff of something tres piquant to get you started, or WHAT?”

Gracie:  (notherenotherenotherenotherenothere….WHOA!  What is THAT?  That’s no little dog marked that spot.  This is RARE!  This is CHOICE!  I’m definitely peeing here.  My pee says, “I’m Gracie, I live in the Cape Cod next to Sam, and I’m 85 pounds of pure seething fury.  Stay away from my Dad’s frigging house.  Oh, and I pissed on your lawn.”)

Me:  “Thank you.  I hear your dog sense of smell is like 1000 times as good as humans.  If that’s true, why do you stick your snoot right in the middle of the stuff?  Oh, and how do you control your bladder, so that you can stop and go 50 times in 20 minutes?  And do you get some kind of visual from, you know, poop, in addition to what must be the overwhelming scent?  Does the backyard look like a minefield to you?  You’re not even listening, are you?”

Gracie:  (…notherenotherenotherenotherenotherenothere…)

Me:  “Why can’t you just walk around like a regular dog?”

Gracie:  (Why do you bring that bag full of you-know-what back to our house all the time?)