28 August 2014 1036:
I walked in the door and said hi to Huckleberry. He was napping on the sofa and was gracious enough to sit up and thump his tale in greeting. I hung up my purse and entered the kitchen to wash my hands. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something seemed off.
Looking around around, I noticed a piece of blue foil on the ground. I’m no Sherlock, but it seemed obvious what had happened.
Huckleberry had jumped up, grabbed the butter I left softening on the counter and ate it. There wasn’t another scrap of foil. I figured he must have eaten that too!
Huuuuuuck. You are such a fatty!
I looked at him, shaking my head, visions of his next few bowel movements sliding right out of his exceptionally well-greased GI tract flashing before my eyes.
Ugh. The one day I forget to close the kitchen door…Oh well, can’t cry over the dog’s consumption of a stick of partially-softened butter.
Turning my attention back to the kitchen, I threw away the foil scrap and walked over to the fridge to get an apple. I eat apples for snacks, not globs of butter. Obviously, I’m more concerned about arteriosclerosis than the beagle is. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a kitchen towel on the floor. Strange, I didn’t remember putting it there, nothing was leaking, and it’s not like me to leave any kind of wet towel on the floor. So gross.
I picked up the towel to return it to it’s rightful home hanging from to the right of the fridge and underneath, I found:
He’d hadn’t eaten much of it, but pushed the whole block it as far under the fridge as he could. Then, he’d pulled the towel off the hanger and covered the evidence of his crime. He must have been hoping I wouldn’t notice and he could come back to his hidden treasure later.
I interrogated him, asking if this dastardly plan was, in fact, true.
In his defense, being a vet student’s dog is stressful. I’m constantly poking him, prodding him and smelling his ears. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve raised his cephalic vein or extruded his third eyelid. He gets at least two dozen unofficial physical exams a year. And then, there’s his anal gland problem.
Huck can’t express his own anal glands. Every 6 weeks I have to give him a hand (er, um an index finger, technically). It’s a messy job, but someone’s gotta do it and I work cheaper than the professionals.
Just the other day, Huck scooted on the pavement in front of Tesco. The homeless man who is always out front yelled at me, “THAT DOG HAS WORMS!” People walking by stopped and looked, as if to make a mental note to avoid my wormy dog and judge me for being a neglectful owner.
I started to say, “Not likely, I’ve just had a finger up his rectum. I think he’s trying to wipe off the lube,” before realizing that I can’t say things like that to the general public and changed my response to, “Not likely, I’ve just…had him treated.”
Sometimes Huck eats the butter and sometimes he hides it. Sometimes I say inappropriate things in public, and sometimes I catch myself, just in time.