We got Jake (and Dizzy, but that’s not part of this post) from Lifeline Puppy Rescue, which is a great organization I simply cannot recommend highly enough for people in the Rocky Mountain Region. The real difference with these dogs is that that aren’t kept at a shelter — they are shown only on the weekend, and during the week they stay with foster families — real families, in a real house, with their littermates. When you get a puppy, you can usually talk a little bit with the foster people and they can give you a few tips or anecdotes.
Jake’s foster mom told us, “we take him for walks, and I’ve been giving him these chocolate-dusted graham crackers for a treat.”
Jackie said, “doesn’t that upset his stomach?”
She shrugged, “it doesn’t seem to bother him.”
That’s where it started.
Jake apparently has an iron stomach for a dog, but I never really noticed. I’m used to dogs (farm dogs) who can eat anything, because they are exposed to everything — steaks, hamburger bits, ranch dressing, cookie dough, barbed wire, farm cats, ornery kids… it was all grist for the mill. Jake is like that. This is a good thing, because while I’ve spent good money to make sure I have a well-trained dog, I am a poorly-trained owner, and I’m all about giving him treats like processed cheese and … well, bits of whatever I’m eating or have finished eating. He may sometimes stink the place up afterwards, but he isn’t going to throw up just because I gave him a saltine cracker.
Not all dogs are like that. Some dogs just…
You see, we’re babysitting 4 dogs for a friend of Jackie’s this week, in addition to Jake and Dizzy. We are getting these dogs with very little prepatory introduction:
“Here’s their food, here’s some bowls, here’s some kennels that aren’t big enough for them, here’s some medicine for Herc — give him 2.5 tablets a day — don’t forget, or he could die or something… I don’t know what it does, though, I didn’t ask the owners. You guys are the BEST, b’bye.”
(Addendum Note: this situation/arrangement has nothing to do with the Puppy Rescue I mentioned previously to explain my dog’s background. I’m sure that when LPR fosters out dogs they provide excellent information and proper supplies.)
Right. So the dogs are introduced, and the night passes… reasonably well.
Early(!!!!) Monday morning, the dogs are ready to get up, so we stumble out of bed, let them out, let them in…
Herc looks hungry. Hmm. Big MF dog… Big MF stainless steel bowl with dog food already in it… right.
Herc loves it — wolfs the whole damn thing down in about 3 minutes — I must have picked right. Everyone back in the kennel and collapse into the bed.
That afternoon, I realize that that was the bowl full of food for the Pomeranians. This does not concern me past the question of ‘What do I feed the pomeranian rat-dogs now?’
I should have been more concerned.
You see, Herc is a pampered dog. He doesn’t look it, but he’s 125 pounds of slobbering socialite-with-a-delicate-constitution. He has had the EXACT same brand of dog-food his whole life. Not only is he never given human food, he doesn’t even get to eat other types of dog food.
Why?
It’s bad, that’s why.
Gentle Readers, at 5 am this morning, my wife got up for work. She walked into the living room where the guest kennels are located and was greeted with a stench only the original Hercules might possibly have been familiar with.
“Doyce, let’s just say he fouled the nest and move on, shall we?”
Now where would be the fun in that? You see, Herc couldn’t help himself. Specifically, he couldn’t help himself twice. He also couldn’t help, once he was released from the kennel, tracking pawprints all over the carpet.
Oh yes he did.
And my wife, thrice-sainted, didn’t wake me up. She handled it. Herc owes her. I owe her.
I don’t owe her quite as much now as I did this morning, however, because I found out at lunch-break that the poisons have not left the building of Hercules.
Not by a long shot.
Herc gets to hang out in the backyard this afternoon, yes indeedy doo-doo.
I love my dog, I really do. He sits when I tell him, sleeps where I say, doesn’t get motion-sick in my pickup, doesn’t make me break out in a rash, and can eat a dollop of peanut butter or a hunk of junkfood without crapping nuclear waste for two days.
If this week reminds me of nothing else, it’s that my dog is perfect for me.
