 |
Every so often, I come across something in the want ads that enrages and baffles me to no end. "Free to good home: 9-year-old black lab (or insert other animal type here). Moving, can't keep (or insert other pathetic excuse here.)" I find this sort of thing particularly troublesome because, although the person is at least trying to find a good home for his or her pet rather than abandoning it at the local Mustang, it seems like a cop out. I mean, who gets a pet only to trade it in for say, new carpet, or that high-rise penthouse condo they've always dreamed of? That's just lame. I can see if a dog has turned rabid or suffers from delusions that 3-year-olds are just Twinkies with legs. Then, it may be time to trade him in. But I see way too many of these types of ads - there's just not that many Lassies gone bad out there to justify this excuse. And for the record, new carpet is not an excuse. (*Note: I am not referring to "foster parents" who are trying to find homes for shelter animals. These people should be canonized.)
Whatever happened to "to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, through dewormings and skunkings, till death do us part?" Isn't it the least we can do for the only species noble enough to earn the moniker of man's best friend? I mean, who else can look at you stark naked with a straight face and devour the same bowl of food every day with wild abandon and never complain? There's something to be said of this kind of unwavering devotion. And the least we can do is try to reciprocate - which does not mean abandoning Old Roy in favor of an apartment in the city or because he's not that same adorable puppy he was five years ago.
It has gotten to the point where I can no longer bring myself to even look at these ads, due to the strong level of disgust that lingers with me for hours, days, weeks even. I just shake my head and turn away, wondering what one small, defenseless creature could have done to deserve to be cast off by his own people.
Well, last Sunday I got a clue.
It was the first sunny weekend in a long time. After mulling around our options, which ran the gamut from nothing to making the trek up to the Nordic Center, we decided on the latter, figuring we should take advantage of the good conditions while we had them. We mobilized, packing up gear and all the necessities for an outing with a 2-year-old, which typically involves more provisions than an Army battalion. When we thought we had everything, we grabbed a few more things just to make sure, and crammed into the family truckster. (For those who don't have dogs, these sorts of outings typically include the dog, who although not necessarily taking part in the activity becomes suicidally depressed if left behind.)
Anyway, it was right around the northern city limits, as we pulled in for our morning coffee and everything seemed right with the world, that my husband noticed a strange smell. I was in the backseat tending to the tot and noticed nothing - until a cacophony of obscenities ripped through the backseat. I looked up to see what can only be described as a mound of brown matter. Mount Dogsuvius had erupted. Without so much as a pre-alert dry heave or gag, the dog had upchucked what seemed to be days' worth of dumpster diving in a mere nanosecond. And we're not talking a little throw-up. That, I can handle. We're talking gallons of Campbell's Thick and Chunky Sirloin Burger - between the seats, in the console, under the dash, on the floor.
For those with particularly strong/depraved constitutions, allow me to digress (all others please skip to next paragraph). As I have mentioned in the past, my dog has a keen appetite for rotting remnants from wild animal "harvests," which always seem to make their way into our alleyway. He likes it so much so that he has broken multiple toes trying to jump the fence and keeps little "stashes" hidden throughout the neighborhood for future reference. Seems one of the stashes had recently ripened to perfection, and he was unable to resist the urge. This would explain why over the last few days, we had caught him slinking off to the same inconspicuous location. We knew he was up to something - maybe a bone or an old piece of rawhide - but had no idea how bad it really was.
Now faced with that putrid pile of reality, we did what any rational adults would do: we plugged our noses, screamed like little girls and abandoned ship, every man for himself (save for the little boy, who was strapped into his car seat, where he was safely shielded from the potentially damaging scene and found the whole episode quite entertaining.) Eventually, more reality came home to roost: that the pile was not going to disappear on its own, and the remainder of our Sunday morning was going to be spent not in freshly-waxed skinny skis and sunglasses but haz-mat suits and rubber gloves.
And that's when I began mentally crafting my wording: "Free to good home. 11-year-old mutt. Good candidate for shock collar. Great floor cleaner but prone to spontaneous barfing. All sales final."
Of course, I never did follow through. See, even through all the puke, hairballs, near amputations and broken toes over the years, he was only doing what came naturally to him. Sure, to most humans, digging carrion out of the ground and eating it is generally frowned upon, but in the animal world it's better than filet mignon on fine china. Besides, you can always clean carpet, but cleaning a guilty conscience is a different story.
- Missy Votel
|
