esrosedotblog

BONEHEAD

Booker is a voracious bone hunter.

Every walk is punctuated with dashes to the bushes or lingering search missions along walls and in planters.

His mission is frequently accomplished. There is a vast array of bones in these places.

We know of two generous sources.

Trash areas where people somehow fail to hit the center of the dumpster spilling bones around.

Then there are the gardeners who eat on the run. Chicken legs, ribs. The bones get stashed in the client bushes.

There are two other sources for Booker. One is the restaurant area that lies on the NW quadrant of our walk area. Again sloppy trash practice. I try to avoid it.

And just up the street there is a corner where someone frequently throws their leftovers. I don't know who or what they are leaving the stuff for. Raccoons? Coyotes?

Booker is quite happy to be the recipient if we forget about it and don't keep a tight leash.

Now, here is the thing about bones. We were warned and cautioned and threatened by vets and others about the dangers of bones for dogs. I developed a bonaphobia.

With Franklin we intercepted the bones immediately and he had been trained to "let it go" which mostly he did and, if he didn't, would submit to a cavity search for the offending bit. Although he got quite good at hiding the thing in his mouth, he still could be induced to give it up.

Not so with Booker.

Booker is big. Booker is solid. Booker does not open his mouth and drop any fucking thing that he got there with his own efforts. Period. You cannot pry his jaws open. He will not bite, although I wonder why he hasn't, he just will not "let it go".

This goes along with Booker's appetite which is always high. He never leaves anything in his plate. Never. Franklin did, often. A picky eater.

So, in alarm, we would helplessly watch him exercise his great talent for bone finding with his habit of not giving the morsel up. He ate it. Them. All the time. Sharp chicken bones, OK ribs, big beef bones (although I have had him drop a really big one out of frustration so I got it). All manner of boney objects.

And he chewed them. Crunch.

I would freak out.

Now I put that in the past tense because it finally dawned on me that he had been eating bones for weeks, maybe one or two a walk, and there were no adverse consequences. No punctured intestines. No torn stomach.

I couldn't even find the bones in his poop not that I looked that thoroughly. None.

Booker is, obviously, a dog who has always had bones and knows what to do with them. He is a natural.

He has a huge mouth with many big teeth. Airedales have like an extra set or something.

And so I have learned to stop worrying and accept the bone chase and chew experience and to let it go. Realizing, I suppose, that fighting it would only make the chewing less effective as he rushed through the process.

And it is good for his teeth.

Hey. When I can't do anything about a problem, I just have to relax. I am out of the picture. If there is trouble I can always step in and help. Until then, let it go.

Not a bad life lesson. So late in the game. Imagine.

Labels: Booker