Hounds For The Holidays

Chocolate will kill your dog. I have heard this warning since I was very young, and back in the day I used to react with the proper respect and fear. But here is what I can say about the dogs that I have owned: Really? I know that cats have multiple lives, which seems unfair to dogs who age at seven times the rate of humans, why can't the canines get a little extra help in this vein? Or perhaps they do, and the dogs I have been most familiar with are evidence of such a gift.
Our current dog, Maddie, has found her way into more chocolate messes than a warm handful of Hershey's kisses. Most of these have occurred as a lack of oversight on the part of her owners' part. Anything that sits at nose level for her, especially if we are foolish enough to leave the room, is hers for the taking. Wrapped or unwrapped, it really doesn't matter to her. When it comes to procuring illicit treats, she is a machine. One particular Christmas Eve the humans bundled up to go out for dinner. We gave Maddie a treat and told her to be good, we would only be gone a short while to look at the pretty lights. We failed to mention that she should stay away from the chocolate torte that was sitting on the kitchen table.
When we returned, the kitchen looked as though it had been ransacked, and it had. The culprit was easy enough to find. She was the one with the guilty look and her feet in a pile of the crumbs. That look and the crumbs were all that was left of the torte. Cleaning the kitchen became a secondary concern to the health of our dog. We looked into all possible cures and indication of poisoning, going so far as to call a pets hotline for advice. The fact that she was ambulatory and drinking water was a good sign, but we were told to watch her carefully over the next forty-eight hours. We did, and we've been watching her closely in the years that followed, always reminding her of the dangers of chocolate. She has nabbed the occasional wrapped candy or cookie, just to make sure that we remain ever vigilant.
Stepping into the way back machine, I recall the Christmas Eve when my parents whisked us off to dinner in order to make the house ready for the early arrival of Mister Claus. Upon our return, we discovered our little black dachshund Rupert had gorged himself on the one pound chocolate mouse that Santa had left, apparently, for him. He probably ate as much foil as he did chocolate, and we stood by as we watched him make his way to his water bowl, which he drained in a minute or two. His generally sleek form became distended, giving him the appearance of an anaconda that had swallowed a bowling ball. Over the next few days we watched and fretted as he waddled from place to place. By the day after Christmas, he was as right as rain, or the freshly fallen snow outside.
And so maybe chocolate is death for dogs, and a higher power interceded on Rupert and Maddie's behalf, a Christmas Miracle. Or perhaps it's really not that bad for them at all, it just means more chocolate for the rest of us on two legs.