Gads, I love my puppy. I know this is a silly thing to write about, but she is just such a dear, sweet, delightful little dog, and I adore her so much that I had to say so. She is so cute. She is small and white, with a happy grin. Her little butt looks like a sheep butt. Her ears go up or down. When she wakes in the morning, she actually has bed head. She is a good dog. The best. The kind of dog people dream about. She’s no Marley. She only chews the toys that are hers. She sits and stays and behaves well. She doesn’t like to be told no, so when she does something requiring a no, she looks so sad, then doesn’t do it again.
Except for one thing.
She eats poop. Yes, she does. Not on a regular basis, but when it happens, it’s horrible. She’s a snuggly creature. If I’m lying on the bed, she’ll jump up and come over and lie across my neck (she is quite small, only 8 pounds). This is wonderful, except when she turns her head and I get a whiff of poop breath. Then the gag reflex kicks in and it’s chaos getting her off me and trying not to vomit. I happen to be 8 months pregnant. Smells are stronger for a pregnant woman. Having the smell of shit right under my nose is like taking a dose of ipecac and receiving the expected and immediate response. Having the smell of shit on my puppy honey’s face is worse than the simple smell of shit. There is the thought of her eating the poop that adds to the gag reflex. I have to spend the next several minutes rubbing my lavender pillow all over my face and thinking about flowers and clouds and pretty things, anything to get the idea of my puppy eating shit out of my head. Not fun. No, not at all.
I bought some pills to give her to help her stop the coprophagia, but ever since I bought them about a month ago, she hasn’t been doing it so the pills have languished on the shelf. In fact, I’m not even sure exactly where I put them. Maybe by her dog food? Maybe in the bathroom? Maybe in the linen closet? I don’t know. Somewhere around here. Before I bought them, she ate her poop about once every week. Then I bought the pills, did not give them to her, and she stopped. I almost forgot about them. Then last night I was all snuggled in my bed and puppy came in for some loving–the little, poop-breath monster. I gagged and screeched, Dan and Milla came running (they had been watching a movie together and my yelps interrupted them), and semi-chaos ensued as the puppy was rounded up, the lavender pillow tossed in my face, and efforts were made to locate the offending turds, if any remained. Puppy’s face had to be washed and I spent 15 minutes thinking those pretty, non-poop thoughts. Good times.
Like I said, I love my puppy. If I can get her to stop eating poop, she’ll be perfect.