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HOLLENBECK: Medicating animals takes more than skill |
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Monday, 26 February 2007 |
 Lynda Hollenbeck
There are exceptions. Some animals are so submissive that they will open their mouths wide, do nothing short of saying “ahhhhh” and swallowing. But there aren’t many of those. Maybe two in the whole world.
In our household, a multi-pet abode, there always is at least one that needs medicating regularly. And our pets, for the most part, aren’t the “roll over and play dead at a whim” variety.
The current regular pill-poppers are Dolly, a fat black and white cocker spaniel, and Danny Boy, a Shih Tzu with chronic skin problems. They aren’t biters, so it’s possible to open their jaws and stick the pills down their throats.
A lot of the time, though, I don’t want to do this. Dog slobber on the hands isn’t something I can’t live with, but sometimes I just don’t relish it, especially early in the day.
So-o-o, I attempt to disguise the medicine in something, usually bread, to entice the dogs to willingly take their meds.
Initially, this isn’t a problem. They’re so thrilled to be getting people food that they’ll gulp whatever it is down whole and won’t care if there’s an odd addition or a funny texture.
This won’t go on forever because eventually canine suspicion gets aroused. I don’t know if they think they’re being poisoned or just happen to get a taste of the medicine and don’t like it or gag on the pill or what. All I know is, the setup just doesn’t last.
This the current situation with Danny. He probably could go to work for the FBI or the DEA or one of those agencies looking for illicit drugs because he can ferret out a pill with lightning speed.
He’ll take the offering, wallow it around in his mouth, get the bread, spit out the pill, swallow what’s left and take off.
To diffuse this, I’ll give him two bites at a time. This works for a while, then he’ll spit out one. You can almost hear his canine thought pattern as he’s making his choice: “Is this the one with the cyanide, or is it that other one?”
The big problem with the double dosing is that Dolly is right beside him ready to grab his rejects, and she wouldn’t care if it was laced with rice or rocks. She wants food, food, food anyway at all, which is why she weighs 40 pounds, 10-15 pounds more than she should.
Not long after Ed and I married, we got out first cocker, Amos. After a time, he developed a serious skin condition and had to have daily medication, which he hated from the first day. My constant challenge was finding a way to camouflage his tablets.
For a while he liked peanut butter well enough that this was successful. Then one day he found the pill and that ended that. You could have given him an entire jar of peanut butter and he would still have refused to swallow.
We then progressed to pimento cheese. This worked a while, then bingo! Amos uncovered the offending object and so ended that masquerade.
This went on for the dog’s entire life.
In case anyone is wondering why I didn’t just give up the game and go for the “open mouth, insert pill” approach, I’ll tell you. I would have lost a hand and probably a goodly portion of my arm if I had been so foolhardy.
Amos loved me and would lick my face, but there’s no way in the world I would have dared try to force open those stout jaws. If he didn’t want you to do something, he would growl once as a warning and it was no idle threat.
A dog with lots of charm and character, his bite was worse than his bark. We learned this early on.
When he came to us as a testy 18-month-old, he did so with a slightly matted coat. At that juncture, I never had met a dog I couldn’t dominate and even bragged about it. Amos quickly taught me how to eat crow.
My spouse’s nickname for him eventually became “Grumps,” a well-earned moniker.
Show him a pair of scissors and he immediately became a charger.
When Amos’ little mats became big mats, they had to go.
I sought pharmaceutical assistance and got some canine tranquilizers that I was told would “knock him out cold.”
“You won’t have any trouble, Lynda,” said the friendly pharmacist who hadn’t met Amos.
All the pills did was make him a little drunk and really, really mad.
Ed and I, looking like mad scientists, donned protective gloves and set out to tackle the offending fur. We succeeded with our hands and arms intact, but there wasn’t a dry spot on either of us when the lengthy ordeal was over.
It was people vs. dog and people won. Finally.
There were moments, though, when I feared the victory might be a posthumous one.
Lynda Hollenbeck is associate editor of the Courier. She receives e-mail at
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