Godric

Poor boopie schmoopums

On Friday night I made tuna and rice for supper.

NOOOOOOOO!

Geezum, I hadn’t even started the story yet. Hold on.

OK.

Anyway, Friday night I made tuna and rice for supper. I had lovely chunk raw tuna, and I fried it up in butter.

There were some chunks that had some harder edges from where they’d been cut off the fish, and as I was cooking I was handing those out to the dogs milling around my feet.

HORRORS! How could you?

No, we’re still OK. That’s what I always do and the dogs love it.

Oh, sorry.

Anyway, I handed a lovely piece to Godric, who happily carried it off.

All right, NOW you can scream, because Godric sure did.

AAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Yup. Somewhere in that piece of fish must have been a very small bone, or a little piece of hard skin, or a microscopic gremlin, or maybe a fragment of a terrible thought. Because he swallowed and then tucked his tail and ran in huge loops screaming at the top of his lungs.

The other dogs, of course, said “HE’S LOST HIS NUT! HE MUST BE STOPPED! IT’S FOR THE GOOD OF THE PACK!”  and all tackled him at once. This made him scream even louder, and run even faster, so within two seconds of handing out an innocent chunk of fish I had five dogs in an enormous swirling melee of barking and screeching.

On the second turn around the kitchen I saw an opportunity and reached down and nabbed Godric, who was untouched and unhurt (the Cardigans don’t like insanity, but they don’t hurt it either), but who buried his face into my neck and sobbed and sobbed.

Dinner was put on hold while we grabbed flashlights and pried his mouth open and dug around his throat in very embarrassing ways and he snarled and squeaked and carried on in an awful song. We found nothing, so we snuggled him up during supper and then carried him off to bed.

However, actual bone or no, the damage was done. His soul had been HARMED FOREVER by ALL THE MEANNESS and I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU PUT YOUR FINGER IN MY MOUTH and I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU and I ATE SOMETHING WITH EVIL IN IT.

All the next day, he refused to look anyone in the face. He sat on my bed and stared at the wall and darted speaking glances in my direction. If anyone approached him, he’d drop to the floor in a creamy floof of hair and slink away, eyes white. He would not eat. He would not drink. He was in the highest state of high dudgeon that has ever been dudgeoned.

Finally, at suppertime, Honour came to me and said she was getting really worried about him. I looked in his mouth one more time, carefully. I dosed him with an ounce of olive oil in case there really was something in there. He gagged olive oil in my face and ran away to slam the door and listen to The Smiths.

Clearly, it was time to break out the big guns.

Shaws will cook rotisserie chickens until 9pm, did you know? And soon a fragrant shopping bag was on my counter. A little piece was torn off and offered to our much-abused baby boy. He turned up his nose and sniffed dramatically.

“Oh, I am so, so sorry for you! How can this BE?” I asked him dramatically, and then dropped the hot chicken into the mouth of Daisy Poppy, who hadn’t realized that now was apparently the time of all good luck.

Another piece offered, refused, and given to an overjoyed fluffy dog.

The third piece he glanced at, then looked at me, eyes wide and watery, clearly weighing the options – this was pretty much the biggest funk he’d ever built up, and letting it go was a little painful. And then the eyes turned to watch a shred of chicken fall into brindle jaws.

The final piece, and, eyes still fixed on me, in excruciating slow motion he opened his mouth and put the chicken on his tongue. If he couldn’t maintain the bad mood, he was at least going to make me work for it. I crooned at him and brought out another piece.

A few minutes later, Honour walked in and said “Oh, poor baby, is he still sick?” I answered “If he is, it’s because of the three pounds of chicken he just ate.”

It’s five hours later. I just checked on him and he was curled in his usual spot at Honour’s feet; when I woke him all was forgiven. The dance of joy was danced and my ear was thoroughly licked out.

Now I just have to figure out how to get olive oil out of Papillon fringes…

Previous Post Next Post

You Might Also Like

3 Comments

  • Reply Frances January 29, 2012 at 6:18 am

    Oh, those papillon speaking glances! I have learned that I need to get my apology in very quickly if I want to be forgiven, although Sophy got through the teenage months very quickly, thank heavens (possibly because a baby sister joined us when Sophs was 7 months old … just a thought for you!). I’m glad all is now forgiven and forgotten.

  • Reply Ruth January 29, 2012 at 10:05 am

    Good grief, and I thought have mt Tibetan Mastiff go into a sulk was bad. But he can’t maintain it for mor than an hour or so!
    Ruth recently posted…Gardening part twoMy Profile

  • Reply K.B. January 29, 2012 at 11:08 am

    Ha! Gotta love sulky dogs!!!

    I regularly put up with schnauzer humphs and the cold shoulder, especially after nail trimming: the HORROR! But they NEVER last beyond meal time!
    K.B. recently posted…Review: Greg Frewin Magic ShowMy Profile

  • Leave a Reply

    CommentLuv badge