My family and I went for a two-night stay over in Calgary to visit my brother, and have some relaxing time in the hotel. The visit with my brother was fun - the first time I got to see him in over a month. We went shopping, picked up some KFC, went down by the river and enjoyed a windy but pleasant lunch, then drove back to the hotel for some swimming. The visit was nice. The hotel stay? Not entirely. First, we had to downsize our room because the one we booked had no fridge to put our Easter leftovers in, nor a microwave to heat them up. Then, my mother nearly broke her foot on a loose step in the hot-tub, and walked around with a painful, swollen foot the entire trip. Finally, when we got to check out, not only has management provided no concession for my mother’s injury - or even the hint of a sincere apology - they’ve denied us the medical rate for our room, and charged us for two nights of having a dog in our room. We didn’t bring my dog.
We should have, though. This is where my story really begins.
We were gone for two days, arranging for our neighbor to feed, water, and otherwise take care of my dog while we’re away. She’s done it before, we trust her. Copper likes her. All good, right? Wrong.
Apparently we’ve gone away to Calgary too much lately, and I’ve been staying in Red Deer too much lately, and my dog is just downright pissed off at us.
He ate: 1 loaf of bread, 1 bag of Lays Original chips, an entire box of unopened Pot of Gold chocolates that my mother got for Easter, an undeterrmined amount of Instant Coffee, an undetermined amount of Jelly Beans that were hidden in the eggs the kids didn’t find at Easter, and my brother’s Sea Monkeys & their food.
He tore up: garbage, papers in my room, coasters, the lid to the cookie jar that the Instant Coffee was in, and one of my Western Pizza cups that I collect. He also knocked over various items from the counter, and one of our upstairs bookcases.
Yeah … he’s in the proverbial doghouse.
It’s not like it’s a secret that my dog is a garbage-guts, though. When we first got him, he ate everything. I do not exaggerate. He ate anything that was left out on the counter: meat, butter, bread, candy, chocolate … whatever there was. He would take scraps of plastic, paper, and garbage outside and chew it up in the yard. He made off with my Resident Evil movie, and chewed up the case. He’s the first dog that actually enabled me to say honestly that, “my dog ate my homework”. He’s eaten our satellite remote, my hair dye, a few unfortunate stuffed animals - the only thing that has ever made him sick is Chinese food. That was a decidedly NOT FUN experience, one that was never repeated. He’s eaten chocolate, candy, and other table scraps, and it’s never made him sick. But, he’s never eaten and ENTIRE box of chocolates, and he’s never eaten chocolate that wasn’t given to him by one of us.
He is lucky to be alive. And not just because he chewed up part of my cup collection … though, if it were one of my Coca Cola cups, it might be a different story. J
Honestly, though, I love my dog. I love him more than anything, and I freely admit this. I am sure that it bothers several family members, but it is the truth. I love animals more than humans, and I always will. I love Copper, I want him to live for many, many years.
My first dog, George, died when he was eight, on August 22, from cancer. My mom left home claiming to be taking him for an appointment, and came home without him. I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye. My second dog, Sylvia, died when she was three, on March 18. She woke up paralyzed on the lower part of her body, from a calcified disc in her back. I had to make the choice to not let her suffer any longer. My mom’s dog, Jack, died when he was sixteen. He had a heart murmur, cataracts, arthritis, and finally died in my arms from a stroke at 5:30 in the morning on November 30.
Copper’s birthday is in July. He will be seven years old. He’s already beaten the 3-year mark, I want him to beat the 8-year mark. I’d love him to beat the 16-year mark. More than that, I want him to be healthy. I want him to live a long, full life, with as little pain as possible. He will be my last dog for a very long time. I don’t want him to suffer through old age, like Jack did, but I want him to live a long, long life.
My dog is a medical marvel. He’s eaten chocolate, which is supposed to be like poison for dogs. He’s eaten a full bottle of hair dye, and the conditioner that came along with it, which should have killed him. He’s eaten paper, plastic, garbage, cardboard, and various human foods. He’s eaten the equivalent of 12-14 days worth of dog food in one sitting when he snuck into the room where we kept his food. He is not a fat dog, nor do we force this food on him - he gets into it all by himself. As of yet, he has survived.
Does that mean I’ll let the box of chocolates, Instant Coffee, or Sea Monkeys sit on the counter when we go out anymore? Nope.
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