A blog about animals and the ways people interact with them.
Monday, May 10, 2010
The bone debacle
I don't like giving my dogs raw bones. When I do, I have to stand around, glazed with boredom, to make sure they don't bite and swallow off large chunks, which an Airedale can and will do with his size extra-large teeth. Then they get messy beards that have to be washed. Then they get diarrhea in the nighttime; it's always at night.
I gave the dogs bones. Photo is the "after" shot.
It happened because there was a discussion about teeth on Airedale-L and whenever there's a discussion about something I'm not doing, I feel guilty for not giving my dogs the absolute best of all possible care. It happened because I drove past a butcher store the other day and butcher stores are as rare as the proverbial hens' teeth. It happened because the young woman at the store exclaimed over my child's Timex watch with the colorful band and light-up face with real hands because she has the same watch and had never seen another adult wearing one. (She had the one with the geckos I used to have and I had the one with the flowers that she almost bought.) As a result, I walked out of the shop with a piece of bone larger than my thigh--not the femur, the whole thigh--that my son sawed into pieces—the bone, not my thigh.
I gave a large piece to Alanis and the smaller chunk to Miró. After half an hour or so, I traded Alanis her bone for a few pieces of super-smelly salmon treat. Miró did not want to trade for super-smelly salmon treat. Seeing me approach, he eyed the treat bag, then picked up the bone and ran. We chased around in circles for a while. You’re not supposed to chase the dog, of course, when trying to pry something loose from him because he makes a game of it. That admonition doesn’t take into account that it’s fun to chase the dog around.
I fetched the offspring and we cornered Miró when he ran around the chicken pen. Surprisingly, he readily dropped the bone in exchange for a super-smelly treat. We then went inside where he drank a gallon of water, leaving a quart of it on the floor along with muddy footprints all over the kitchen. And the hall. And the living room carpet. Alanis, as usual, did not make a mess. Even mud rarely clings to her feet.
Now I’m taking bets. Will it be barf or diarrhea? Alanis or Miró?