No matter how high-class and how pampered dogs are these days, they are still very fond of trash can contents. A pet food company could make a fortune if they ever came out with an artificially-flavored dog food named “I can’t believe it’s not garbage.”
When I was growing up, our family dog would eat most anything, including my daddy’s leather gloves if he carelessly left them lying in the back yard. Given a choice, though, our dog Laddie preferred eating opossum more than anything else. For Laddie, the idea of a real culinary treat was something he caught himself, and he could have cared less if he had “a smaller, firmer stool.”
Laddie wasn’t a pedigree dog. He was part rat terrier, part Kathy’s, part Tim’s, and part mine. My parents took Laddie to the vet once a year---to get his rabies shot. Period. If he got sick, he got better. If he got injured, he healed up and haired over. After getting hit by a car, Laddie hiked up one of his hind legs and ran three-legged for the rest of his life.
Laddie (Tripod) ate what was left after we ate. Treats for Laddie? Ha! Treats weren’t purchased as packaged delicacies---they were happenstance. He dined on pork chop bones, pie dough that was left too close to the edge of the kitchen counter, and milk from the cat’s bowl. Once, Laddie ate half a pillow case of candy Easter eggs. Refer to paragraph 4---He got sick and he got better.
Soon, I’ll be dipping into my IRA to feed our two boxer dogs, Jackson and Max. We feed them Beneful at mealtime and reward the two guys with Milk Bone dog biscuits and Beggin’ Strips. They won’t eat anything they haven’t seen advertised on television. Jackson sleeps on a Serta pet mattress, and Max snoozes in a Martha Stewart two-bolster dog bed.
Yesterday morning, Lanny let out the dogs, and Max came back with a limp. We’re not trying to get the Dog Owners of the Year award, but we do feel a responsibility to care for our pets. So, off to the vet we went (My dad would have made him “walk it out”). Max spent the day being poked, prodded, and observed by a health care professional who loves animals more than we do. When we came to pick him up, our vet showed us the x-rays. Nothing wrong. (Whew!)
So, with five pills a day disguised in peanut butter, Max should be just fine. In fact, he didn’t limp after we left Dr. Eve’s office. Gee, for the cost of two radial tires, he could have at least limped a couple of days. Since I began writing this article, Jackson threw up on the den floor. I’ve already decided how to handle it.
Just like my daddy.