After an almost life-ending battle with bloat in May, our Labrador retriever Dinah is now on a low-fat gastrointestinal veterinary dog food, the price of which will remain between me and me. She has lost 12 pounds and as happens when one loses old-age weight, she has become more energetic and resourceful.
But let me be clear: she has lost one of her favorite daily activities– freedom to wander our property, all five acres, looking for tasty morsels of whatever. I use the catch-all term whatever because Dinah’s culinary tastes have always been eclectic and, truthfully, disgusting with a capital D. When she was retching her guts out in May, she heaved enough aluminum foil to cover a Thanksgiving turkey.
His Honor, in all his wisdom, asked from his easy chair, ” Where would she have gotten foil? ” Duh.
“Some idiot walking or driving the road must have thrown it over our fence, Your Holiness.”
So it goes.
In her youth, she ate part of a squirrel that had fallen out of a tree and half a rat which our cat, now in Feline Hell, had killed. I’ve written about these escapades in the past and should you want to gross out a grandchild or an annoying wife or husband, you can search my blog.
But for now.
Each morning and night Dinah is escorted in chains out of the house to “do her business” on a leash attached to an arm of a woman in a robe.
Her canine olfactory radar always on high alert, she senses owl pellets, turkey poop, or some other mystery meat from a mile away. Straining at the leash, she hopes the woman in the robe will trip, releasing her to make a beeline for said nightly snack.
By day, Dinah is now confined to a lovely patio where, through her wrought-iron prison, she can only hope and dream of her former freedoms, much like the prisoners at Folsom Prison did when Johnny Cash rolled out the line, “…I bet there’s rich folks eating from a fancy dining car…”
Dinah no longer jumps the creek and trots into the olive orchard to scavenge for tidbits or olive pits.
Last night, Dinah plunged to a new low.
“Your honor, the woman in the robe thought, last night, after watching the newest episode of the Great British Baking Show, Dinah nosed your hand and licked it.”
I was going to suggest that you wash that hand, but alas, I didn’t want to hear a repeat of your chorus of you, yourself, and ya’ll in an excoriating bad-mouthing of my dog.
Last night, when the lady in the robe took the starving prisoner out for her nightly constitution, something happened so fast that truthfully, your honor I have no idea whatsoever what occurred or did not occur or maybe never occurred.
I opened the door, it was dark, stepped out with Dinah, and in the time it takes a Venus Fly Trap to suck in a fly, Dinah surged toward a post holding up our portico and ate something the size of small frog that was sitting at the base of the post.
“OMG,” I said to her outside. ” What in the hell was THAT?”
As with most incarcerated beings, she took the Fifth.