I recently adopted a dog with gas. Enough, seemingly, to fire a power plant.
It’s a trait we really weren’t expecting when we brought her into our home. We knew she had epilepsy. She takes medicine for that.
In the time we’ve had Cali, a very loving and sweet 5-year-old, she’s had three seizures. Not bad for more than a month in to this relationship. Her medical condition seems, so far, to be manageable, although the goal of course is to get her to the point that she doesn’t have any seizures at all.
But Cali’s other explosions are frequent. Like maybe every other minute. The vapors arrive unexpectedly, causing folks all around to suddenly snap to, looking at one another suspiciously. Was it you? Was it me? Who was it?
Other times, it’s more audibly obvious who the culprit is. It can happen when she’s happy. Jump, jump, bark, bark … oops! And when she’s sad. Whine, whine… Cali! When she jumps up on the bed to cuddle. When she jumps off. All eyes eventually settle on Cali, who smiles at the attention. Hey everyone, look at me!
I’m at a point of no return, which is neither ladylike nor adult. It’s like trying not to laugh in church but still dissolving into contagious gales of laughter. Maybe it’s my nerves. I’m worried about what will happen if we have a party, or the effect on a family dinner if I host Easter again this year.
I’m trying to adjust Cali’s diet, thinking that could be the root. But the truth is it could be the medicine. It could be biological. It could be just because. I had a relative with the same problem years ago, who eventually became something of a pariah.
Oh, you say Uncle John is coming? Can you seat him at the other end of the table? Or, perhaps, in another room?
Cali is a part of the family now so we will have to come up with some solution. Or politely look the other way and hope this gas will pass … so to speak.