In which Boscoe allows us a weekend sanity reprieve

 

Since my last post, Boscoe has relented. You might think that maybe he's feeling better, but I think he's toying with us, keeping us off-kilter for his own nefarious purposes.  In any case, whatever the reason, he decided, on Saturday, to start eating kibble. 

Not his own prescription, diabetic-friendly, rock-hard, high-fiber, pale brown kibble which produces tidy small poops that are much like cardboard. No, he'll still have none of that (and don't we have a giant unopened 30-pound bag of that in the basement, oh, yes, we do). But I happened in my careless manner to drop a few nuggets of Riley's Innova onto the kitchen floor during the Saturday morning feeding, and Boscoe dived for it and scarfed it up.

Hmmmm....  Not prescription, certainly, but oh, so much easier than multiple Tupperware containers of delicacies.  So I poured a cup or so into his bowl, and Lord have mercy, he ate it.

He ate it again on Saturday night. And ate it again for both feedings on Sunday. 

Oh, the joy of kibble. It is easy. It is dry. It is not messy. You put it in a bowl, and the dog eats it. You don't even have to wash the bowl afterward. All weekend, the feedings were fast and simple, just like before.

On Monday morning, he puked, just a little, just a tiny amount, but I decided not to chance it, so it was back to turkey and rice slurry. (Which he ate with gusto.)

This morning I chased him around the house for about 15 minutes trying to get his pain pill into him. He wouldn't take it in his Pill Pocket, nor embedded in chicken, in cheese, in peanut butter, in bread, or in turkey. The pill sits on the kitchen counter even as I type this, uneaten, sticky with remnants of all kinds of foods. If the Tramadols weren't something like $1 apiece I'd throw that one away and start fresh.

In five minutes, I have to feed him. Will he eat? What will he eat? I guess I'll know soon enough.

On the other hand, when I took the garbage out a half-hour ago, he was standing in the yard, staring up the porch steps with what I always think of as despair. I tossed the trash, turned back to the house--and he was on the porch, waiting to be let in.  So....won't eat cheese, but will go up the back steps? He's back to driving me crazy.