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.”