One Christmas long ago, I happened upon a beautiful kitty dookie in the liter box; a wonderful little cat turd wrapped like a barber-pole with a glistening piece of tinsel. My roommate and I placed a hook in the decorative feces and hung it neatly on the Christmas tree. (There are no excuses for being young and stupid.) To our delight, Willie – my tinsel eating cat, produced several more “natural” ornaments for our tree that year. The tree was beautiful but pungent.
At least once a day the phone at the clinic blows up with a panicked owner wondering if they need to make their dog vomit because of something they’ve eaten. It’s “dietary indiscretion” because doctors find it difficult to write “stupid dog” in the medical chart. More interestingly, we rarely get the same question about a cat. Because cats aren’t that stupid and they only vomit recreationally, that is: for the shear joy of watching us clean up the mess while sitting nearby, pawing the puke off their face.
When Jackson bounded through the door, making an entrance to the clinic that would put Cosmo Kramer to shame on any Seinfeld episode; you would hardly think the young Retriever would be a candidate for a panel of diagnostic blood work. If Jackson was sick, then I’m a model for Speedo Swimwear. The Golden-Doodle was only two years-old; a dirt devil of energy intent on milking the love out of anyone within leash length.