Dear Goddamned Beagle,
Whatever you ate, it seems this time you’ve been bested.
Far from your usual “one bad burp and we’re good” resolution to unwise noshing, you started off yesterday, my birthday, by getting sick at 5:00 am. Since then yucky, bloody, emergency potty runs, greasy, sick-dog fur, and, last night, an entire second or two before you noticed someone’s ice cream bowl on the floor have made it clear that this is not a one-burp kind of food hangover. I must commend you on running to the basement when your unfortunate bathroom emergencies occurred between times I let you out. It was nice to not have that take place near the living spaces. If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you known how to open the basement door?
You’ve even taken several long naps on my lap, clearly needing some… I was going to say Repentance Cuddling, but there is no repentance here. Just the practical understanding of the value of a good lap and blanket in front of the fire when feeling sickly.
Flagyl, boiled chicken and rice will be your medicine for the next few days. I realize this is reinforcing whatever you did with better-than-usual meals, but I have no choice.
Your vet asked once again if you could have eaten anything, and once again I laughed and said, “Of course.” Why, just three days ago on the way back from his office you were sniffing a few leaves beside a stone wall and came up chewing. I swear there was nothing there – these days I look pretty carefully at things I’d have never even considered looking at before you came along – yet you were chewing. You also shot me a look that proclaimed, “Yes, I’m chewing and you can’t have it.” Again, I really never want what you’re eating, Beagz. I’m just interested in sparing you days like this, and me the sanitizing, housekeeping and financial cost of them.
You’ll have to wait a few days until your next sidewalk buffet I’m afraid. For today you’re yard- and couch-bound. Why, you can barely yell at passing dogs today without looking exhausted. Their glances back through the window show far less respect for your powers than usual.
Rest up, Beagle.
Love,
Your Person
I was reminded by my friend Judy, Who Was There, of the adventure of Fred the Beagle one Thanksgiving in Seattle. Judy was taking care of Fred, who had a Doctorate of Beagle Sneaky (summa cum laude) and who sneaked himself out of the house on the afternoon when a local church was holding a Thanksgiving meal for the homeless on the Sunday afternoon after Thanksgiving – mostly older men were in attendance. He probably smelled it from her house and homed right in on it. Well, the beagle was clearly starving and the recipients were very generous. How do I know this? After Fred was recovered and panic averted, home he went. And up he threw, all night. Turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy and peas. Lots of peas.
On a previous occasion, in a different section of Seattle, being sat by a different friend, Fred sneaked. My housemate (across town in yet a different section of Seattle) got a call from a bar, where Fred, clearly starving, was being fed pepperoni and other bar snacks by the bar populace who were worried about him wasting away (he was Not Thin.) Luckily she knew they guy who was sitting him, and Fred was retrieved, reluctantly leaving his newfound marks, I mean friends.
At least neither of those incidents required a three 160 mile round trips in 4 days to an emergency vet. That honor was reserved for the pork bones Fred scavenged from a garbage pile when he sneaked out of my trailer in Wayan Idaho where I was living at a wildlife refuge next door to a ranger station. From shrieking at 4 in the morning, to locating a small animal vet who would see him, to racing across state lines to Jackson Wyoming, to “phew, was able to pass stuff without surgery, come back and get him” to getting 20 minutes into the second trip back (approximately 250 miles so far) with the shrieking recommencing to….surgery, and one more round trip back to convalesce. I think I still have the receipt somewhere.
We won’t elaborate on the bottle of iron pills, the rat poison, the uncooked box of cous cous, the box of raw pasta or the special and elaborate birthday cake a friend made for me. We’ll jsut say he survived all of those incidents, some with vet visits, one with vet calls to VHUP at UPenn (measure him and call us back if he gets bigger at x rate) and the last one with human forbearance and restraint (“you cake eating dog!”)
I still miss him.