(or, I see London, I see France)
So, apparently a British dog had to have surgery recently because he ate his owner’s thong and when he was released from the clinic he did it again. While I’m a little confused that this warranted media coverage in England, I would like to point out that at least the woman wears thongs.
My dog scarfs down real underwear. The kind you’d never lay claim to if they dropped out of a laundromat dryer or onto an airport security table; commodious lingerie that one accepts along with an AARP card and senior discounts.
Sweet little Sullivan has a serious issue.
Clean, not clean, he doesn’t care. He’s consumed whole pairs of underpants still in their replacement packages. And also converted more pairs of my husband’s boxers into kilts than I can count.
The first time I saw him with a suspiciously short piece of elastic waistband hanging from his mouth like the tail end of a spaghetti noodle, I rushed him to the veterinary hospital where his stomach was pumped. My comfortable underpants were brought up in four (large) pieces. Then reconstituted to be sure nothing was left behind.
In front of me.
My face felt microwaved.
Probably to ease my obvious discomfort the doctor told me about the time a woman brought her dog to the vet because he couldn’t stop vomiting. The hound was X-rayed, a foreign body visible in his belly. The doctor operated and removed a pair of undergarments, which were then presented to the owner after surgery. I have no idea why. Maybe the thought was that she’d want them for her dog’s scrapbook.
Anyway, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that the lingerie didn’t belong to the dog’s mistress. They belonged to the husband’s.
While the story horrified me I did briefly consider claiming that the age-appropriate underpants that Sully had just barfed up weren’t mine either. But I knew this wasn’t believable.
Now whenever Sullivan manages to bypass the barricade and emerges from the laundry room guilty and sated, I, per doctor’s orders, pull out a spoon and the hydrogen peroxide. Then I make my four-legged side-kick throw up the hamper contents. And like a demented jigsaw enthusiast I put my non-thongs back together. In private.