A doggie delicacy

We must love our dogs because in a dog’s average lifespan I reckon we will have taken them (if we are good and devoted dog owners) on around 10,956 walks; fed them 5,478 meals; bathed them 780 times; wiped mud off the walls at least 10,956 times; washed the kitchen floor 47,286 times and dragged rancid entrails out of their mouths 958 times.

Make that 959.

My friend Hanni decided to join us for a part of our walk in the woods today with her puppy, Poppy.  Poppy is an extremely lively 9 month old black Labrador with an indomitable spirit.  I have a vested interest in this pup as I gave Hanni the initial contact when the litter was born and as much as Poppy is adored I’m sure my name is mud (if not mounds of steaming sludge) from time to time.  Around 4 o’clock this afternoon would have been one of those times.

In a shelter belt I walk through there has been a decomposing deer lying a little way from the path.  Some other forest creature has been picnicking on the carcass and has hauled the poor deer’s entrails on to the track … right where an exuberant and ever hungry Labrador puppy will smell and spot them and think all her birthdays have come at once.  “Yum!  Rancid, probably previously disgorged, maggot infested intestinal tract – my favourite”, she clearly thought.

It looked like something they would use in a tie-break on a Japanese endurance show.

Despite being on the lead and our best efforts, Poppy managed to scoop up the not inconsiderable mass of rotting gut and within seconds the innards were nestling seemingly happily alongside hers.

I have in the past managed to draw out a half digested rabbit from my retriever’s stomach if there has still been a protruding leg to catch on to but this was like trying to grab evaporating jelly with glass gloves.

As Poppy licked her lips with relish Hanni’s colour went from crimson to so pale that if a midgie had landed upon her at that moment all it would have got was practice.

By the time we parted, nothing had been forthcoming, as it were, so I raced home in search of a farrago of vomit inducing apparatus.  Rosie, my neighbour, friend and, handily a veterinary nurse, suggested bicarbonate of soda “shlooshed” down Poppy’s throat.  What to “shloosh” with? Turkey baster? Water pistol? Jet hose? Back to Hanni ‘s and we settled on a jug and funnel approach.  With Hanni’s son, Al, grappling with Poppy in a sort of helter skelter half nelson, Hanni holding open her mouth and me trying to dispense the solution straight down her throat we succeeded in getting most of it on Hanni’s leg, my face and the grass but we were quietly confident a batsqueak hit her stomach.

Pacing around for a while watching her every move we were like jittery expectant fathers outside the delivery room.  We were almost about to hand out cigars after some dubious greeny tinged foam appeared but that was it … and five hours later that’s still it.  I’m receiving regular progress reports … reporting nothing’s up.

What a dog! I have the feeling that the 960th time is not far away.

Again, I, Eileen “Steaming Mound of Sludge” West apologise sincerely.