Allergies And A Dog's Dignity

The dog's depressed.

I bet you didn't know dogs could get depressed. I'd heard of elephants getting depressed, and sometimes dogs feeling kind of sad when their owners go away, but depressed? Nah.

But Gryphon? He's depressed. Most definitely.

How do I know? Because for the past three days, he won't get up when food's put in his bowl, he refuses to play, he will not get up and greet us at the door, and he has refused to go out and pee for the past 24 hours.

But, I mostly know because of this:




But more because of this:

Why is the dog wearing oven mitts, you ask? Don't all pets wear oven mitts?

Because he's a twit, that's why he's wearing dirty, ripped oven mitts, wrapped around his paws with clear packing tape. Yes, that's right. We abuse our dog, and we're damn proud of it.

Seriously, though, our dog is depressed because we put oven mitts on him to prevent him from chewing himself to death and destruction. Our hypoallergenic standard poodle, Gryphon, has allergies. Go figure.

Only in this family would there actually exist a being such as this. Oh, the irony of it all.

Every year, he gets itchy and has to go on antihistamine/steroid medication to stop the itch. And every year, we never quite know when he's going to start reacting to whatever it is he reacts to, and we don't want to give him the meds before he actually needs them because we are anal and hate spending a dime we know these meds can also harm if taken when not actually needed. So, remember children, don't ever forget to ask your parents if it really is okay before you take that extra dose of Gravol before they put you to bed. And don't drink the Koolaid (unless it's berry-flavoured).

So, a couple of years ago, Mr. Handsome designed an easy, yet economical, way to prevent the dog from chewing big huge bloody holes in himself. Hence, the oven mitts and the packing tape. Yes, folks, that PhD surely does come in handy now and again.

Of course, Gryphon thinks this is the utmost in punishment and disgrace, and he reacts at first by prancing around on tiptoe, a la Elmer Fudd when he's "hunting wabbit".

And then, when he realizes how utterly stupid he looks, and once he figures out how to actually sit and lie down with his paws all wrapped up, he lies down, and doesn't get up. Instead, he lies there and watches us, his eyeballs moving to and fro. It's a sad sight, really. And yet, not. Because he really brings this upon himself in the first place. And so, we sit and we point fingers at him, and we laugh devil laughs as we stare at the poor soul with oven mitts for feet.

He is disgusted with us, he is disgusted with himself, and meanwhile, his bladder gets fuller and fuller. He's a strange dog.

Now, if only I could get him to learn how to bake a lasagna, I'd be home free. Might as well put those mitts to good use, seeing as we can't use them.