We Haven’t Killed the Dog Yet, or What Makes him Stronger

For thousands of years, man and dog have lived together.  We have had a dog for six weeks.  During this time, I have made multiple calls to vet to make sure we hadn’t done something inadvertently wrong that could cause him to die.  We have had better luck with children, one who has lived to be ten and the other thirteen.  Unlike the dog, neither of our children have been on the cusp of death. 

One could argue that I am neurotic and have an abnormal fear that my dog might die from our poor custodianship.  Here is proof. (Clarification: I mean proof that I am neurotic, not a poor custodian. But you be the judge.)

Things to fear that could kill our dog:

• Bloat, 
• Running away and getting hit by a car or bus,
• Chewing an electrical cord,
• Choking on a lego,
• Death by onion, garlic or currant,
• Biting someone and then need to be put to sleep for being a maniac because we did not sufficiently train him, and
• Eating some random thing found outside, like a berry, leftover food such as a Kidd Valley hamburger or birthday cake from QFC, or cat poop.

Last night while we were eating dinner, Fox was nipping at my big toe.  I was going to put him in the bathroom for the meal, but my justice-seeking son thought that would be cruel.  The dog training book said give him something else to chew, like a toy or bone.  As fate would have it, we were having BBQ pork ribs I made in the pressure cooker.  John finished them on the grill.  Fox loves meat.  Any kind of meat.  Raw, grilled, beef, pork.  He loves to stand by the grill and see if anything will fall his way.  My DH, who never had a dog before, gave Fox a bite of pork chop while he was grilling.  Fox turned into Cujo for the rest of the evening.  Porkchoporkchoporkchoporkchop must have been his only thought for two hours.

So Fox was nipping at my toes, and someone thought we could give Fox a bone from the dinner table to chew.  This brought along a chorus of “This Old Man” and thoughts of weren’t we so lucky to have an animal to partake in the bones from our table.  We knew chicken bones were unsafe as they splinter, so we figured we were fine.  He seemed happy with the first bone, so we gave him another.

After dinner, P.J. saw Fox chewing on shards of bone.  When we looked for the rest of the bones, we couldn’t find them.  Fox ate them.  All of them except for a few mini scraps.  I tried to pull him out from under the couch, but Cujo wouldn’t have it.  I grabbed his collar and dragged, risking my fingers to get the last bits out of his mouth.

We figured Fox was done eating the bones and hadn't choked on them, so we passed that near disaster.  John took a bone in his teeth, and crushed it himself.   Now we had to hope the Fox’s little digestive system could handle the load of broken bone.  I called the emergency vet, and she said to feed Fox soft food to help the bones pass through his colon without causing damage.  Oy.  DH went to the store and bought Fox some soft food, his third meal of the evening after his regular dinner and the two bones.

The vet asked if Fox was acting normal.  Fox was better than normal.  He was Super Dog after eating more than a weeks worth of protein in bone marrow.  He was sprightly, strong and focused.  Focused on getting more bones.  His coat seemed to shine and he was happy.  So now we have Super Dog on steroids, and had to wonder if he would die tomorrow when this passes through his system.  We weren’t worried about our weak dog who couldn’t lift his head, nor a tired dog who only wants to sleep.  We were worried about our pomchi who had enough energy to run the Iditarod.

I began to wonder about all of these rules from the dog books about things that could kill them.  If Fox were in the wild and caught a rabbit or rat, he would likely eat a bone or two along the way and it wouldn’t kill him.  Likely, the bones would be a source of calcium for a week.  But Fox isn't a wild dog.  He is a lap dog, bred to be small and civilized.  He is a far cry from the wolves living in the wild.  Likewise, the rest of his body is used to small and soft food, not whatever rodent he can kill.

I am happy to say Fox lives.  Really.  I am afraid I’ll get one of these check-up calls from the Humane Society and I’ll have to tell them he died from eating something he shouldn’t have, and they will regret ever letting us have one of their animals.  I am glad he is sturdier than we are smart.