Them bones, them bones....

My dog gets into things. Things he shouldn't. Things he KNOWS he shouldn't. Things that will make him puke. He's got to have figured it out by now, right? Eat something out of the tall white bin = puking in the corner.

Hasn't figured it out yet.

So it's Easter Sunday. I gingerly take out the Butt Ham and make a point to stuff the plastic wrapping and sponge (to soak up the butt juices....lovely....) from the bottom of the bag into the depths of the garbage can. I know my dog.

Of course though, when we returned from church we discovered that the smell of the cooking ham had proved to be too much for our dog, who had sought to satisfy his cravings. The meat bag was in pieces on the floor.

The usual scolding followed, but since it WAS Easter we decided to give him the ham bone anyway. We either hand it over nicely or he riffles through the trash to get it, right? At least this way I know he's not smashing ham bits into the carpet.

He is not used to getting treats. Here, the mind of my dog....

I have no speech.

Quick! Scan the horizon for poachers!!

Meat meat meat...I love meat....

I am unable to convey my gratitude: I lick in your general direction.

I wish I could end the post here, with my dog adequately fat on ham butt. But no, such is not the case. As you probably could guess.

Let's fast forward a few hours. While Caleb and I are rubbing our full bellies, the mutt noses the door, his usual sign for I am Bored. Release me. After obliging him for an hour or so, Caleb lets him in and discovers the sponge from the ham butt bag. Unless we've been visited by the Butt Sponge Fairy, (oh the Google searches that will pull up....) I think we can safely assume the sponge didn't sprout legs and make it's way to the porch. It had some help from a greedy dog tummy.

Do you think it felt used? Toyed with a bit? Like a fish, tossed back into the ocean?

So. Puke. We've got puke.

The next afternoon the situation is repeated. Nudge & oblige. This time however Caleb opens the door to the deck and discovers a veritable Poop War Zone. With casualties aplenty.

We spent the next 24 hours letting Bear out any time he got antsy. He did not disappoint. Which actually, is rather nice at 4 am. I'd rather drag myself out of bed, down three flights of stairs, and into the cold knowing that I was preventing another Attack of the Killer Poop. And when I say I, I mean Caleb. I felt better knowing he wasn't braving the bleary night (who has time for contacts at 4 am?) in vain.

Not that I didn't feel sorry for the dog. I'm not totally immune to the pathetic groans of a dog mid-squat. He got a few tummy rubs.

Lesson learned. The hard way. Yet again.