We have a fox terrier by the name of Jasper. He
came to us in the summer of 2001 from the fox terrier rescue
program. For those of you, who are unfamiliar with this type of
adoption, imagine taking in a 10 year old child about whom you know
nothing and committing to doing your best to be a good parent.
Like a child, the dog came with his own
idiosyncrasies. He will only sleep on the bed, on top of the covers,
nuzzled as close to my face as he can get without actually
performing a French kiss on me.
Lest you think this is a bad case of 'no
discipline,' I should tell you that Perry and I tried every means to
break him of this habit including locking him in a separate bedroom
for several nights. The new door cost over $200. But I digress.
Five weeks ago we began remodeling our house.
Although the cost of the project is downright obnoxious, it was 20
years overdue AND it got me out of cooking Thanksgiving for family,
extended family, and a lot of friends that I like more than family
most of the time.
I was assigned the task of preparing 124 of my
famous yeast dinner rolls for the two Thanksgiving feasts we did
attend.
I am still cursing the electrician for getting
the new oven hooked up so quickly. It was the only appliance in the
whole darn house that worked, thus the assignment.
I made the decision to cook the rolls on Wed
evening to reheat Thurs am. Since the kitchen was freshly painted,
you can imagine the odor. Not wanting the rolls to smell like
Sherwin Williams #586, I put the rolls on baking sheets and set them
in the living room to rise for a few hours. Perry and I decided to
go out to eat, returning in about an hour. The rolls were ready to
go in the oven.
It was 8:30 PM. When I went to the living room to
retrieve the pans, much to my shock one whole pan of 12 rolls was
empty. I called out to Jasper and my worst nightmare became a
reality. He literally wobbled over to me. He looked like a
combination of the Pillsbury dough boy and the Michelin Tire man
wrapped up in fur. He groaned when he walked. I swear even his
cheeks were bloated.
I ran to the phone and called our vet. After a
few seconds of uproarious laughter, he told me the dog would
probably be OK, however, I needed to give him Pepto Bismol every 2
hours for the rest of the night.
God only knows why I thought a dog would like
Pepto Bismol any more than my kids did when they were sick. Suffice
it to say that by the time we went to bed the dog was black, white
and pink. He was so bloated we had to lift him onto the bed for the
night.
We arose at 7:30 and as we always do first thing;
put the dog out to relieve himself. Well, the dog was as drunk as a
sailor on his first leave. He was running into walls, falling flat
on his butt and most of the time when he was walking his front half
was going one direction and the other half was either dragging the
grass or headed 90 degrees in another direction.
He couldn't lift his leg to pee, so he would just
walk and pee at the same time. When he ran down the small incline in
our back yard, he couldn't stop himself and nearly ended up running
into the fence.
His pupils were dilated and he was as dizzy as a
loon. I endured another few seconds of laughter from the vet (second
call within 12 hours) before he explained that the yeast had
fermented in his belly and that he was indeed drunk.
He assured me that, not unlike most binges we
humans go through, it would wear off after about 4 or 5 hours and to
keep giving him Pepto Bismol.
Afraid to leave him by himself in the house,
Perry and I loaded him up and took him with us to my sister's house
for the first Thanksgiving meal of the day.
My sister lives outside of Muskogee on a ranch
(10 to 15 minute drive). Rolls firmly secured in the trunk (124 less
12) and drunk dog leaning from the back seat onto the console of the
car between Perry and I, we took off.
Now I know you probably don't believe that dogs
burp, but believe me when I say that after eating a tray of risen
unbaked yeast rolls, DOGS WILL BURP. These burps were pure Old
Charter. They would have matched or beat any smell in a drunk tank
at the police station. But that's not the worst of it.
Now he was beginning to fart and they smelled
like baked rolls. God strike me dead if I am not telling the truth!
We endured this for the entire trip to Karen's, thankful she didn't
live any further away than she did.
Once Jasper was firmly placed in my sister's
garage with the door locked, we finally sat down to enjoy our first
Thanksgiving meal of the day. The dog was the topic of conversation
all morning long and everyone made trips to the garage to witness my
drunken dog, each returning with a tale of Jasper's latest endeavor
to walk without running into something.
Of course, as the old adage goes, 'what goes in
must come out' and Jasper was no exception.
