I was contemplating this question and realized that while it used to be nicknames for Pettigrew (A Much Loved Dog Has Many Names) that I had in multiples, now it is something else to do with my fine furry friend.
Warning: this post may get graphic. I will try to stay within conventional norms and not cross the line to grossing people out; however, like a woman who is describing her recent childbirth experience, I may be too much in the thick of it to have maintained a sense of perspective.
So, although Pettigrew is a loving and lovable dog in many ways, he, unfortunately, has a weak tummy. For his first year with us, I always carried three bags with me on any walk and it was not unheard of to need to snitch bags off of newspapers.
It was early in the morning. I figured it was win:win. I got the bag I needed. They didn’t discover a nasty deposit on their front lawn, plus, instead of staggering out in the cold and dark to locate their paper, I left it outside their door.
As I have posted before (Lemons or Is It Lemonade?, The Parable of the Too Small House, The Princess Di Rule), Pettigrew’s tummy continues to be a trial and yes, we have a lot of words to describe what comes out of his body.
Second Warning: skip the next sentence if you are squeamish. We have squirty, liquid, liquid with a bit of texture, oatmeal, slurry, soft serve, formed but too soft to pick up, formed in discrete pieces but too soft to pick up, formed and pick up-able if using very gentle fingers, and finally healthy!
My husband and I have even taken photos of Pettigrew’s output and texted them to each other to provide instant-time updates on his tummy health. Poop-ting?
I used to think this was really weird and kind of shameful, something I would never admit out loud, until I was at the vet’s and was trying to describe what was happening with Pettigrew’s tummy, again, and casually slipped in that I had a photo on my phone.
She seemed perfectly happy to look at it, so I figure, heh, maybe it isn’t so odd after all.
Yes, yes, I know you may be pointing out that she is a vet. As I warned you above, there is a chance I have lost my sense of perspective.
But guess what? This Thanksgiving we made a breakthrough.
Loading leftovers in the car, we saved the remains of Grandmom’s apple pie for last. It would travel in splendor cushioned inside a box lid on someone’s lap.
Pettigrew had other ideas.
Angling a chair away from the table, he propped his front paws on the seat and leveraged his head over the tabletop.
Returning to the kitchen I gazed in horror at his feast.
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’m thankful to share that it settled his tummy! Turns out apple pie is the new chicken soup.
Ruth Polk 
Oh yay!!!!!!!!!!!! I am so happy to heat it! I am happy to make him pie whenever we are together.
LikeLike
I heard you were very gracious about Pettigrew’s taking a nibble out of the pie before it made it back!
LikeLike