My truth is that I love to eat stuff I'm not supposed to eat. You name it - sticks, rocks, leaves, dirt, flowers, bugs, socks, flip flops, kid toys, dog toys, dryer sheets, and the list goes on. For this reason, I have been labeled CFD - crazy fool dog. The vet said I'd never outgrow it, which nearly made Mom cry. A dog sitter said I could do with some obedience training, to which I indignantly replied, "Hey! I resemble that remark!" and Mom said, "Right, because I have time for that." So, our truth as a family is that we just live with it. When I go outside, especially when I'm unsupervised, I wear a bucket muzzle. I'm not gonna say I don't mind it, but I've learned to live with it. Mom and Dad said one surgery to remove a blockage was one surgery too many, so I either wear the muzzle, or I don't go outside. Someone has to chase the squirrels, though, so I wear it. People seem to have strong feelings on muzzles, but I can bark, pant, and drink water with it on, and sometimes when I can get it a little loose, I can get my teeth on a stick or a leaf! Last Friday was one of those times! Oh I went crazy - CFD.
But most truths have consequences, and some of those consequences are ugly. On Saturday, Mom and I piled into the car and headed into town for our morning walk. Things were going great. Mom was really believing that she was training me on my walking form, which I try to let her have as a victory now and again . . . until a bird or squirrel crosses our
path, and then it's game on. As we began our return loop back towards the car, I felt a poo coming on. Mom could somehow tell, so she steered me to a patch of weedy dirt between the sidewalk and the street, on a quiet, pretty private corner, where only one older lady drinking coffee on her porch could see. I pooed and pooed til Mom was like, "Geez Gus!" If only she'd known what was coming.
At the tail end of the poo (pun intended) came all the munched up leaves and sticks and flower buds I'd managed to sneak. Only problem was that I couldn't get it out. So, I stood up and made like I was ready to go, while Mom looked at the four inches of poo hanging out of my butt. "Really?" she said. "You are not serious with this, Gus." Oh, I'm serious. Mom got a poop bag out, put it on her hand, and reached for the hanging chad. That did not look good to me, so I tried to dodge her and ended up stepping in the part of my monster poo that had hit the ground.
"Gus!" Mom shouted. Now we had the attention of the front porch coffee drinker. Mom used the poop bag to pick up the ground cover before I could step in any more, and then reloaded with a new bag, and reached for the lingering log again. I tried to dodge again, but she used a nearby tree to cut me off. She gave it a little tug, and I yelped. "I'm just trying to help you, buddy," Mom said gently. With help like that, who needs dog abusers? On her third try, Mom tried using a bagged pinky finger to expand the exit ramp and somehow managed another little tug, which got the same reaction from me. "Fine," Mom said, cutting a sideways glance at our morning coffee friend. "We'll just head on."
I was happy with that, but Mom clearly wasn't, cause she started speed walking and mumbling stuff like, "If you think for one minute that you're getting in my car with poo hanging out of your $#& and smushed on your paw, you've got another thing coming." The speed walking was a great unintentional solution though. About a half a block later, I was ready to squeeze out the grass and stick-filled poo, so I stopped dead in my tracks right there on the sidewalk. Mom nearly stumbled over me and cussed me out some more. But when she realized I was ready to release the extra residue, her demeanor changed quite a bit. Or maybe it was the nice old couple walking our way that changed her tune, but either way, Mom loaded another poo bag and picked up the end of the line - and then inspected it. I hate that part. "Guuusss," Mom practically wailed. "This is all grass and sticks and a tree blossom!" I sat with my ears back doing my best to look pathetically sorry and extremely cherubic all at the same time, attempting to channel the angelic little puppy you see below.
"Isn't he cute!" said the old lady as they passed, while her walking partner took a long, sideways look at Mom inspecting my poo. To my dismay, she engaged him. "I'm gonna start my own business - CFI. Canine Feces Inspector. I get a lot of practice." My eyes rolled. Mom loves that one. I cringe when she wants to examine the poo, because then the jig is up. As we walked back to the car, Mom took up her usual post-inspection lecture - "Why, Gus? Why can't you just stop eating that stuff? If you would stop eating it, you could roam freely in the yard," and on and on. As she lifted me up into the back of the car and slid the water dish my way, she shook her head and gave me a wry smile. "You are one CFD, Gus," she said. "I just don't understand." Come on, Mom. Sometimes you've just got to do what you love, if you're willing to accept the consequences. Sometimes you gotta just eat the sticks.
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