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.