Panic at the backdoor.

I really thought something was wrong with my dog this morning.  And I’m not going to lie and say I handled it well, because I panicked.  Oh yes, I was anything but calm.

I opened the backdoor to let her into the house, and I noticed that she was just sitting there.  What’s the problem, you ask?  Well, first of all, she never just sits there.  She either comes quickly into the house — like, Thank God you people finally let me in!  Did you even realize I was out there, in the wild, without my fluffy blankets and pillows, for a whole five minutes?  Good God, something could have happened to me! — or she runs away from the door — like, Oh, I couldn’t possibly come into the house now!  Don’t you realize I have sticks to chew on and birds to bark at?  Also, there’s this delightful mud puddle I must run through, repeatedly.  Now go back into the house, and leave me be!  (Somehow, I imagine her voice sounds like Stewie from Family Guy when she says this.)  (Yes, I’m certifiable, I know.)  (Also, What the duece?)

Oh, so, aaaanyway… she was just sitting there.  And when I moved aside so she could come inside, she continued to just sit there.  So I reached down and gave her a gentle tug in her collar.  Once I tugged, she came in, crouched down low, and immediately sat herself right back down.  Hmmm, I thought, this is not right.  I opened her treat jar — yes, she has a whole glass jar full of treats sitting on our counter — and offered her a treat, while moving myself backwards a little to see if she was having trouble walking.  She came to get the treat — after all, she is a DOG — but she kind of crawled on the floor, got the treat, and immediately sat right back down.

At this point is when full blown panic set in.  Oh God, I thought, she’s really hurt.  She cannot walk!  Her back legs, they are INJURED!  And I rushed towards her, all the while looking to see if I saw any gaping wounds on her legs.  “Sugarplum, what’s wrong?” I wailed.  (Yes, I call her Sugarplum.  Shush, and listen to the story.)  I patted her down and thoroughly inspected her legs.  I couldn’t see anything amiss.  I couldn’t tell what was wrong with my baby! 

 And then she got tired of me poking and prodding at her legs — I figured she’d yelp if I hit a sore spot — and she got up to move.  It was at that point that I noticed what it was that was bothering her.  There, sticking out of HER ASS, was a bit of fuzz.  Fuzz, half in and half out of HER ASS.  Fuzz, that looked suspiciously like what one of her stuffed animals is stuffed with.  Fuzz, that she had eaten, and then not been able to poop all the way out.  Fuzz, in HER ASS.

I stopped panicking and started recoiling.  Because, on one hand, I was glad nothing was wrong with her.  On the other hand, however, I knew what needed to be done, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.  Yes, my friends, I had to grab several paper towels, reach down to my DOG’S ASS and pull fuzz OUT OF IT. 

It makes me feel better to know that she’s not hurt.  She is perfectly fine.  Also, it makes me feel better to know that she enjoyed the whole process about as much as I did, which was NOT AT ALL.

One response to this post.

  1. Posted by Sara's Mom on 01/11/2008 at 12:16 am

    Okay, I tried not to laugh, it was funny, but the last time I laughed at something along this order, the same thing happened to me. So if you hear that Ike is experiencing this trouble, just know that he is my dog, not my husband. I have seen some of the stuffing around here so it may be possible.


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