by Daryl Anderson
It’s a cliché that
writing is a lonely job. I don’t know if I’d go that far, but it’s certainly
solitary, which is why I have dogs. Their unconditional love and easy
companionship make the whole business of writing a little less lonely.
At least 99% of the time…and it’s that other 1% that’s been bothering me of late.
I suppose it started
with Pitch, the stray puppy I brought home several months earlier who decided that
his mission in life was to chew his way through the entire house. Pillows, table legs, even a ceramic pig
enticed him.
But I took it in
stride. With the possible exception of Labs and Boxers, all puppies outgrow
their youthful mischief. It was the problem with Fera—my fifteen-year-old
Rottweiler mix—that pushed me over the edge.
For
practically all of Fera’s life, she’s eaten from the same bowl—a heavy-duty
plastic job that my old dog had grown increasingly fond of with each passing
year. (Only when it was too late did I discover just how fond.)
But
as I said, it started with Pitch, who had also taking a liking to Fera’s bowl.
Bluntly put, he ate it.
Or tried to. That he
did not entirely succeed was not for lack of effort. His sharp puppy teeth had
managed to gnaw off most of the black rubber coating from the bottom, but I was
more concerned about the deep gashes in the bowl’s interior, which provided a
perfect medium for bacterial growth.
I took a shaky breath—time
for new bowl.
On the first attempt
Fera backed away from the metal bowl as if it were a coiled viper. Reassessing
the task before me, I opted for the slow, safe route. For a week—or two—I
continued to feed Fera from her old bowl, but placed the shiny new bowl in
increasingly close proximity, thereby sensitizing my old girl to the new
reality. When I reached the point where the bowls touched, I was ready to try
again.
And as an
added incentive, I sautéed some ground turkey and rice and mixed it with Fera’s
kibble to sweeten the pot—or rather the bowl.
This time Fera was way
ahead of me. Before I’d put the bowl on the floor, she was already backing away.
I was about to dump the mess into the old bowl and try again another day when my husband intervened.
“Leave the food,” he said. “When Fera gets
hungry enough, she’ll eat it.”
But she didn’t eat it—not
that day, nor the day after that.
I wasn’t ready to
accept defeat, but neither could I watch Fera starve herself so I began feeding
her by hand, cajoling all the time for her to eat from her “nice new bowl.” When
that didn’t work, I tried other dinnerware: plates, pasta bowls, aluminum pie
pans, but nothing worked.
Then one night, just
before falling asleep, the answer came to me! The next morning I found an old
cereal bowl that fit snugly into Fera’s battered bowl. Sure enough, Fera ate
her chow. Maybe it was a little crazy, but it was sanitary, which was always my
primary concern. I bragged to anyone who would listen about my ingenuity.
“I’m just glad it’s
over,” my husband said.
But like so many
victories, mine was short-lived. The next day when I placed Fera’s bowls on the
floor, she cowered, tail flat as road-kill. We stared at one another for a
long, long moment. I’m no dog psychic, but I’m pretty sure Fera was thinking
the same thing as me: Have you lost your
friggin’ mind?
I blinked first. I
poured the kibble into her old bowl and put the new one away. “Here you go,
girl.” I pushed her cherished bowl toward her, relieved that the awful game was
over.
Only Fera wasn’t ready
for it to be over. She shied from her once-beloved bowl. I grew cold with the
realization of what I had done. Instead of acclimating Fera to a new bowl, I’d
managed to instill a fear of bowls—indeed, of all dishware!—into my elderly dog
Since that awful day,
I’ve fed Fera by hand. It’s a slow process, but the other morning she actually
ate a few morsels from her old bowl. Hopefully in another day or two things
will be back to normal.
I don’t know what—if
anything—Fera learned from the entire ordeal, but one thing is crystal clear,
at least to me.
Maybe you can teach an
old dog a new trick, but not always the trick you wanted.
3 comments:
Oh, man, Daryl. I hope Fera comes around - for both your sakes! Interesting how flexibility or the ability to adapt can impact happiness and quality of life. :)
Poor thing. Hope it gets back to normal soon.
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