A case of the runs

I’m not sure whether I should let Coco see this ad:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-4bm5NxqPY

And if you like the Gingrich ad, you’ll love the way Rachel Maddow has taken it and run with it.

I’m also glad I’m not running for president. I say this not as an endorsement of Romney (who does strike me as a cold fish — slightly more alive than a robot), but because there have been so many things I have done or been involved in over the years that could make me look like an absolute monster that I cannot even begin to imagine what they might be.

I’ve had a lot of dogs. I have bred and sold them. That alone would make me a monster to the animal rights crowd. Easy to say “Screw ’em!” but I’m not running for anything. I also have a lot of firsthand experience with dog travels and dog diarrhea. Years ago I had a dog named Chatty, a ghetto-mean-looking brindle pit bull from central casting if ever there was one, and to call him insane and inexhaustible would be understatement. He had a way of taking advantage of any and every opportunity for fun and excitement, and because I was often busy I didn’t have the time his “needs” demanded. No one could have; this was the sort of dog who could run and play all day every day and still want more. So I was always happy (as was Chatty) whenever anyone was willing to entertain the simple demands his hyperactive but lime-sized brain could contrive. He destroyed many household objects and over time, could and did reduce suspended car tires to small shreds of rubber.

While working on one of the many construction projects one day, one of my employees asked if he could take Chatty to the bay and play with him. The man — a beefy, scar-faced ex con with swastika tattoos — just loved that dog, and claimed that only he understood him. The love was certainly mutual, but I am sure the AR crowd would argue that the games  they played were way out of line. To an uninformed observer, it would have looked as if either a dog was being brutalized by a sadistic thug, or a man was being attacked by a vicious pit bull. Seriously, they would roll about in mock “battles” and the dog would grab this guy’s heavy work boots and shake on them. I remember at one point he was laughing hysterically and exclaimed “Hey Eric! Chatty made a hole right through my work boot!” The dog truly loved the violent roughhousing with his buddy, as it was the only opportunity he had for it. Bear in mind that this was the kind of guy who, if you were dumb enough to strike him in the face with your fist, he would smile the way a kid might smile over a challenge in a video game, and you’d be on. And had some idiotic dog attacked Chatty (who was fortunately pretty friendly with other animals), he’d have reacted the same way, wagging his tail over the death and destruction “game.” (In quotes because it would probably not have been a game for the other dog.)

With that background in mind, consider that it was a dull day for a dog, as his master was doing the usual boring stuff and had no time for him. What could be more delightful for an indestructible dog than to suddenly be invited on a playdate by his favorite indestructible buddy? Without giving it more than passing thought, I told him to take the dog to the bay and have fun. I was relieved because the dog had a baby sitter and wouldn’t distract me or get into mischief where I was working. The problem is, the day wore on, and it wasn’t until it was getting close to sunset that I remembered.

“Oh shit! Where’s Chatty?”

Oh, that’s right… His buddy took him down to the bay. But surely they couldn’t still be playing, could they? Consider that this was San Francisco Bay —  a direct outpost of the Pacific Ocean, with tides, currents, and strong waves, which meant that a game a fetching a tennis ball thrown far by a strong man over and over again, and dragging it back through the surf would supposedly be exhausting in ten minutes or so, I figured the pair must have found something else to do, but I went down to the bay anyway to investigate. It was getting dark, and they were still there! Chatty was at this point frothing foam and glassy-eyed, and dragging himself through the water with the ball in his mouth. Yet even so, it still was not quitting time — not for either one of them! As my worker roared with laughter, I ran into the wet sand, and had to grab Chatty by the collar and drag him away. (“No fair!” is what he would have yelled had he the ability.)

It was on the drive home that I noticed something was very wrong with Chatty. First came the obligatory salt water vomit (which I expected), but next I heard a disgusting gushing sound and looked to see not diarrhea in the true sense, but water — which had the smell of rancid sea water — pouring from Chatty’s butt. Sea water was literally pouring from both ends of the dog.

Then as he collapsed, I saw that he was not only glassy eyed, but shaking fitfully. I got him home and took him inside, where he lied down shuttering and shaking, his eyes completely glazed and uncomprehending. By then it was too late for a trip to the vet, so I called pet emergency, and told them that my dog had been playing fetch in the bay for over three hours, and that he was now nearly comatose and shaking uncontrollably with glassy eyes.  The guy asked one question.

“Is your dog a pit bull?”

“Yes,” I said.

“He has obviously exercised himself into a state of shock. That breed is known to do that.”

Actually, the human pit bull who had “exercised” him admitted jovially that he was finally getting tired himself when I got there, and he had only been throwing the damned ball. So it was clearly a case of over exercise. Whether it was human or dog induced, who knows? A dog with any normal canine sense would have stopped when it had had too much, but for Chatty, concepts like “too much” or “enough” simply did not exist.  Perhaps these normal “instincts” (if in fact that’s what they are) have been bred out of them. The vet (or vet tech — I don’t know) told me that pit bulls are very tough creatures (which I already knew), and that if I wrapped Chatty up warmly and tried to force as much fluids as I could into him, he’d probably be OK, but that I could bring him in if I had to and they could put him on an IV. I wrapped him in an electric blanket and nursed him through the night, and the next day he was fine.

And having related that true story, not only won’t I ever be elected president, I don’t think I could be elected dog catcher!

AFTERTHOUGHT: While it is always tough to read canine minds and second guess these situations, based on my experience with dogs, I would be willing to bet that Romney’s dog would rather have been in his crate on the top of the family car going to Canada than locked in some damned kennel for the duration of the trip. Many a dog owner who has had to board dogs in a kennel can testify as to how they hate it.

Yet had Romney locked his dog up in such a place, he’d have avoided the present scandal.