My husband cringes when I tell gross stories about our dog. But, I feel it is my duty as a dog owner. These beasts don’t stay adorable puppies forever, and people who are thinking about getting one should know the truth. It’s the equivalent of having a baby and thinking it’s all about the snuggling and cooing, when it’s really about spit-up and projectile poop.

Our dog has bad, bad gas. The type of silent flatulence that makes you want to curl up in the fetal position and whimper, “Tell me when it’s over.” She emits fumes which make the leaves on the houseplants shrivel up and die.

They used to smell like chicken. Rotten chicken. But, lately she’s been eating grass…a lot. I fear we’re going to get a contact buzz, because now her farts smell like the seats near the rafters of a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert. Next thing you know, she’ll be wearing a tie-dyed collar and doggie moccasins.

If you’re thinking of getting a puppy, do yourself a favor and invest in a gas mask…and don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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Last week, our veterinarian told us that our dog may have cancer. At a routine visit, the doctor found a lump on the top of her paw. She seemed concerned and when I asked her what she thought it could be, she looked at my five year old son, then at me, and said, “I’d rather not say.” As in, “I don’t want to be the one to break it to your kid that his dog is going to die”.

The next day, I took our dog back and left her at the vet’s office for x-rays. Back home, without her around, things were so strange. There was no barking when someone walked by, no putting the trash can on top of the refrigerator when I left to run errands, no rolling of my eyes after seeing she had climbed onto my bed for her half-day nap, and I freely left a plate of food on the table when I went to answer the phone. That’s just unheard of in this house.

That night, when we were still waiting to hear the radiologist’s report, my husband and I couldn’t help but look back and talk about the things we’ve been through with her…

Like the time she wrestled a 20 lb., frozen turkey out of the sink and to the floor. I came home, nauseous and pregnant to find bits of that raw bird everywhere.

She once ate a nursing pad, and my husband had to go through her stool for three days to make sure she had passed it. And, another time when she ate a nursing pad I had to induce vomiting with hydrogen peroxide, which resulted in something akin to the canine version of the Exorcist right in the middle of my kitchen.

There was the Thanksgiving shortly after she had surgery on her paws, when in the excitement of a road trip, she jumped up and dead-bolted the door with her lampshade collar, as we were outside packing the car…without our keys.

The many instances when my husband has let her off her leash to run, and she immediately heads for the stagnant pond water, then comes home smelling like a dead fish.

And, there’s the time she jumped the fence, at midnight, when it was 15 degrees, snowing, and there was a howling wind. My husband drove around for hours, while I stood outside our front door hoping for a glimpse of her and wondering if she was all alone, freezing to death somewhere. Ah, good times, good times.

The morning after her x-rays, with her back home, we got back to our routine. She barked at cars and smeared nose juice and slobber all over the windows. I shut the bedroom doors so she wouldn’t get on our beds, only to walk into the living room and find her sprawled across the love seat.

Everyone was back to saying, “Watch my food!” if they had to leave the table for any reason, and the fresh fruit on the kitchen counter was pushed back as far as we could get it.

The trash can was up on it’s perch, and I found a knife, spoon and a plate on the floor which she had dragged out of the kitchen sink and licked clean.

That night, we got a call from the vet letting us know her x-rays didn’t show any sign of cancer. I’m so glad she’s okay, because now that I think about it, I’d like to wring her neck.

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Our dog had a pretty rough day at the veterinarian’s office yesterday, so last night I climbed down on the floor to pet her and make her suffer through some of my puppy talk.

When I got up, I noticed something stuck to my sock.

Thank goodness that sticky eyeball wasn’t attached to my other foot, because then I’d have to show you my sock with holes, AND I’d have to tell you that they’re the socks I “borrowed” from an Aunt. See? Those faint lines near the hole are part of her name. It was written across the sock in case she misplaced them at her retirement home.

There’s no doubt about it…my husband is a lucky man.

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My nine year old daughter has quite a collection of stuffed dogs. So many dogs, that for Christmas we bought her a REAL dog bed to put in her room. There are Shepherds, Collies, Poodles, Terriers, Huskies, and Bulldogs…just to name a few. The collection is so big that we’ve lost count. But, there is one…just one…that holds a special place in my daughter’s heart. One little dog so dirty and tattered that it’s almost unrecognizable. Her name is Darling, and I think she was a Beagle in her previous life at the Hallmark store.

Sometime in November, when we were cleaning out toy boxes and organizing rooms to make space for Santa’s bounty, Darling got lost. We looked everywhere for her. Furniture was moved, closets were emptied, and toy boxes were thoroughly searched. I had come to the conclusion that my five year old son had probably thrown Darling into a Goodwill bag, but I didn’t dare tell my daughter that.

Last night, just before I tucked her into bed, we made another attempt to locate Darling. We looked under my daughter’s dresser and behind her desk, and I finally told her that I was afraid we had shipped Darling off to Goodwill. Her eyes filled with tears and she said, “NOOOO!” I told her that I just didn’t know where else that dog could be.

Then I asked her if she had ever looked in my room. She and my son watch TV in there sometimes, and I told her it was possible that her ornery little brother could’ve thrown Darling under my bed. So we looked among the shoe boxes, stored-up summer clothes and dust bunnies, but with no luck. Then I looked behind my bed…and, THERE SHE WAS. Lodged between a windowsill and my headboard, crumpled up and barely visible.

When I said, “I found her!”, my little girl dropped the clothes she had been holding and ran over and grabbed her dog. And the tears which had been welling up, freely flowed down her cheeks. She was blubbering with joy, and I was so happy for her that I started crying. A grown woman, crying about a filthy, stuffed dog with spots of fur that are hardened with what is most likely syrup. I never would’ve thought that I’d be happy to see Darling too.

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