Suicidal god

8 12 2009

My dog’s on suicide precautions.  I had to take away all her eating utensils–even the chopsticks. So now she has to eat directly from the bowl. It doesn’t seem to slow her down.  Then I hid the dirty shirt that she likes to drag around. Figured it could be a potential hanging hazard. It’s just that all she does is eat, sleep and lay on the couch with those sad eyes. Anytime I don’t do what she wants, she threatens to kill herself. She says she’ll do it too.


I tried to spend extra time with her. I let her know that I was there for her anytime she wanted to talk. But she wouldn’t talk to me.  Just laid there and stared at me like she was dying. Then I thought, they have drugs for this sort of thing. Puppy Prozac. Doggy Diazepam. A Canine Cocktail for happy wagging tails.

 So I took Judah to the doggy psychiatrist.

“I think she may have a drinking problem,” I explained.

The psychiatrist frowned and wrote something down.

“So she’s been drinking a lot of water?” the psychiatrist asked.

“No, not water.” I glanced at the dog and whispered. “You know an alcohol problem.”

Judah rolled her eyes.

“ I noticed that there were several wine bottles in the recycle bin,” I said.

“And she has access to the wine?”

I don’t think the psychiatrist believed me.

“She spends a lot of time home alone,” I said.

“Is there anything else that makes you think that Judah is depressed?”

“She sleeps on the couch all day.”

I looked at Judah. She denied everything as we sat there in the office. She was even smiling and wagging her tail.

“She chews her nails too. I think she might be anxious.”

The psychiatrist recommended diet and exercise for us both.


 As soon as we got home, Judah started to make threats. If I didn’t take her outside or give her breakfast or snacks, she’d slit her wrists.

“Whatever,” I said. “You don’t have any thumbs.”

Then she said, “Down the street not across.”

I handed her another biscuit.


 The next day she spit out her doggy treat. It was one of those green dental ones.

“Who do you think I am?” she asked.

“The dog,” I said.

“That’s right. Thee Dog. Capital D. And everyone knows what dog spells backwards.”

“God. Little g,” I said.

“I’m calling the animal cruelty hot line.”

“Don’t,” I said. But I only half meant it. I was thinking about calling animal control myself. I’d slip her tags over her head and claim that I didn’t know whose she was.

 Judah stared directly at my plate at my half eaten Porterhouse, medium rare. I was forced to saw off half a portion.

“It’s a little overdone, don’t you think?” she asked.

You eat rotten things. You fall asleep with your nose in your ass. You roll on dead things. But I didn’t say any of those things, because of her delicate condition.

“Be sure to make me dessert,” she said, eying the chocolate chip cookies.

“You can’t have those,” I said.

“Why because I’m a dog?”

“You’re allergic.”

“Pick the chocolate chips out.”

“I’m not picking–”

 “I’m good friends with PETA. I’ll tell them you’re poisoning me.”

“You wouldn’t.”

She glared at me. These weren’t the sad eyes of depression.

I spent 20 minutes picking out chocolate chips. Her cookie was nothing but crumbs.

“Next time why don’t you make peanut butter cookies?” She licked her paws.

“Yes, Dog,” I said.




One response

8 12 2009

Oh my god, I laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants. You always make me laugh, think or at the very list, grin from ear to ear.

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