This is not Gordon Blackstone's finest hour.
For the past two days, he's been in a diaper thanks to a very disturbing case of explosive diarrhea. It's always nasty when a dog has the runs, but the situation is made even worse by the fact that Gordie has no idea that he's shitting himself -- ever.
He doesn't pant or squat.
He simply poops in situ and our only clue that he's doing it is that heart-sinking pungent smell wafting from the bed, the chair where he's sitting with one of us or from the floor.
For the past year, we've played nursemaids to our Jurassic Pug, trying to anticipate his bowel movements, but it's not always easy.
He's a stealth pooper. Always has been, always will be.
My friend Suzanne calls this butt disease. Her old dog, Buddy, had it and yesterday, she recommended a dose of Pepto-abysmol, something the bastard veterinarians sell to unsuspecting dog owners with a dispensing fee for triple the price. I'm trying that along with boiled rice and hamburger and the rice water leftover from the high quality basmati I was saving for curry dinner. That curry dish doesn't seem too appetizing now that I think about it.
The diarrhea started two nights ago, on the bed, detected by Finnigan who was nosing at Gordie's backside. Finnigan, the shit eating Lab, gets so excited whenever he discovers Gordie has pooped and tries to get in there for a tasty snack before we even realize Gord has taken a dump.
It's often a wrestling match between me and Finnigan, like two homeless people fighting over the last burrito in the bin behind Mexicali Rosa's.
Yesterday, I was dozing on the couch, and discovered Gordie sitting in a brown puddle on his pillow beside me on my leather sofa. I dashed to the Pet Valu where the clerk sold me the wrong sized diaper, twice! at the loan shark approved and nearly unlawful price of $22. (Mike Duffy must own this franchise!)
Finally, I got them home and tried to put a diaper on his behind, fending off Sophie and Finnigan who thought this was a game.
For twenty odd bucks, you might think the people who make these diapers could spare a little adhesive, but no, the tabs simply didn't want to stick. Panic set in -- it felt like I was one of the last contestants on the Amazing Race, Ferris Wheel of Shit Edition. I raced into Scott's office for the cameraman's helper, a very large spool of Duck Tape.
Red Green is right, by crackie, Duck Tape works for everything -- a rip in an old leather chair, a leaky sun roof, a heart-lung machine, a toddler's mouth -- even for a pug diaper.
Success was mine. Bwahahaha.
I'm now on day three of diaper duty.
He's sitting here crying, hoping I will pick him up and sit with him -- not an appetizing notion given yesterday's poopfest but I'm not falling for it. Not this time.
Gordie's not happy but I've wrapped up like a Christmas present.
Here's hoping it isn't Christmas every day this week.