After a busy and stressful week last Sunday, a small bout of selective diarrhea began.
It was selective because I would go all day without a poop (or, as they are called in my house, “doubles” because they are number “twos). I would produce a semi-soft stool (also the name of the punk Griffon punk band I began as a pup in Florida) and then get out of my parent’s bed three or four times a night to
Produce little poop
Puddles. When my tank was empty, I began the process again the following day.
My parents tried the chicken and rice diet, which quickly became the chicken diet because Griffons aren’t vegans. Still, the pattern held until Thursday they called the vet.
Pre-COVID vets instead on seeing an animal before prescribing medicine, but in the disease’s aftermath, they ain’t got no time for patients. The vet instructed my parents to come to the office, sit outside, text them the space number, and they would bring the medicine out. They are so reluctant to allow anyone inside I am pretty convinced they are running a cock fighting ring in the waiting area.
My parents returned home with the magic pills to stop my midnight pooping. They opened the bottle, took one out, and realized there was one problem. They looked at my face, which said, to paraphrase Will Smith, “keep your M effing pill out of my M effing mouth.
My parents’ first effort at giving me the drug was the old “wrap it in chicken” trick, and I took the meat and spat out the pill. They tried it wrapped in cheese with similar results.
Frustrated, they forcefully opened my mouth, put the tablet in, firmly closed my mouth, put my head back, and waited for gravity to do its business. But, Griffons are not subject to the laws of physics, and when they let go, I spit the pill out.
Next, Mommy forced my mouth open and put a small bone in it to keep it open, then Daddy fired a slingshot, sending the pill into my mouth but off the bone, knocking it over, and the pill out of my mouth.
Then they put the pill into a syringe full of water and forced the stream into my mouth, and I welcomed the water and expelled the drug.
Things broke down after that. They tried, but instead of putting the pill in me, they would put me around the tablet, which they balanced on the tip of a sword; they opened my mouth and lowered me on it until it was halfway into my body, then pulled me out. They were happy to see the pill gone until I spit it out.
With one end not working, they did a quick Google search about what would happen if we put the pill up my butt. Thankfully, Mr. Google told them they could be imprisoned for such an offense, and they searched for a new way.
They put it in butter to slide it down my throat, and I slid it back up. They covered it in a meaty broth, which I licked off and left the pill untouched. They hid it in my pumpkin; I ate it and left the tablet. They offered me a thousand dollars, and I held out for $10,000.
Exasperated, they threw the pill on the ground. I watched it skid across the floor, then sniffed it. “Just leave it,” my Mom, who had given up, said.
If three is one surefire way to force a dog to take a pill, it is to them they can’t have it. I made sure they weren’t looking, then licked up the medicine.
It wasn’t too bad.
After that, they crushed it into my food, which they should have done in the first place.
The pill cured me of diarrhea, but the stress of giving it to me caused my parents to suffer from dysentery. Luckily there is a pill for that.