Piece of Cake
Piece of Cake
By: RDV
When I picked him up from the dog kennel I just knew I had to have him. He had the cutest face a puppy could ever have. His immaculate white fur so fluffy I just wished he’d retain it through his adulthood. His parents were both Japanese Spitz of pure breed. Like them, he showed signs of stunted growth midway on the process.
I called him Mico. Mico was only one of the two pups that stayed alive a week after birth. I named him even though the most I could own of him was a short borrowed time. I couldn’t keep a dog. We couldn’t. The neighborhood almost had no dirt for pets to dump on and it was so tightly packed one could hardly keep a domestic animal without complaints from the residents. I pled on bended knee in front of my parents just to keep him for a month, trying to reconcile myself to the fact that sooner or later the rightful owner would come and pick him up.
My parents agreed on the condition that I’d have to make Mico shut up when he howled out at night. It made me want to sing out in joy. I kept him in a little basket with old sheets and pillows. He did cry at night and sometime even milk did not suffice. In the morning I’d play with him. Once in two days I’d treat him to a nice little bath, against which he’d fight for his life. Unable to challenge the necessity of a bath, he’d just tremble in fear.
Two weeks after the temporary adoption, he stopped eating. Like all puppies we’d owned before, he just lost appetite and would refuse whatever food we placed on his plate. He was so mired in sickness that his movements seemed strained too and I knew that he was ready to die then. I couldn’t bring myself to deliver him to a veterinarian. My parents were away on the vacation and wouldn’t be home for the week. All puppies that assumed the same behavior died, I remembered, as any food turned spoiled before them. A neighbor said we should take him for a walk. If he ate grass that meant he had a poisoned stomach. To my dismay, he ate weeds of them, an indication that he was hungry and had a bad belly.
There was nothing else to do but wait. In my desperation I prepared a refrigerated cake, cherry cheesecake, let it freeze and planned to make him eat it. He wouldn’t of course. But likewise I wouldn’t give it up. I spooned one on his mouth, forced his jaws up and stuffed the cake down his throat. It didn’t matter if he choked or something. I just knew I had to put something inside him. His eyes were watering, suffering, I guess. He was too weak to fight back which is why he was compelled to swallow. I heaved another one spoonful, and then another until there was nothing left of the slice. It was night, his sleeping time, and I just let him after that unsavory meal, knowing he wouldn’t wake up the next morning.
The first time I did the following sun-up was to check on him. I had partly accepted that he was dead when lo and behold; he was standing up on his own. He was walking, to my great joy, but feebly at that. Although he was quiet I could tell that life went back to him. He was lapping something on his plate. I hastened to him, knowing that the half-rotten food was what he was busy nibbling. His appetite was back! I hurried to the kitchen to serve him food. When I brought it to him, he took no time and gobbled it up in minutes. The joy I felt was indescribable. I knew it was through my hard work that he was resurrected. He was no longer sick. His weight came back along with his lithe. I couldn’t believe it was all because I forced food up in his mouth. I told myself I could make a good veterinarian.
Three days later, however, it was time to say goodbye. The owner picked him up and raised him somewhere else. I don’t know if they kept his name. I don’t know if he ever grew up to be a dog. I never asked; I was too disappointed. But wherever he is now, I hope to hell that that cherry cake is still fresh on his tongue.
By: RDV
When I picked him up from the dog kennel I just knew I had to have him. He had the cutest face a puppy could ever have. His immaculate white fur so fluffy I just wished he’d retain it through his adulthood. His parents were both Japanese Spitz of pure breed. Like them, he showed signs of stunted growth midway on the process.
I called him Mico. Mico was only one of the two pups that stayed alive a week after birth. I named him even though the most I could own of him was a short borrowed time. I couldn’t keep a dog. We couldn’t. The neighborhood almost had no dirt for pets to dump on and it was so tightly packed one could hardly keep a domestic animal without complaints from the residents. I pled on bended knee in front of my parents just to keep him for a month, trying to reconcile myself to the fact that sooner or later the rightful owner would come and pick him up.
My parents agreed on the condition that I’d have to make Mico shut up when he howled out at night. It made me want to sing out in joy. I kept him in a little basket with old sheets and pillows. He did cry at night and sometime even milk did not suffice. In the morning I’d play with him. Once in two days I’d treat him to a nice little bath, against which he’d fight for his life. Unable to challenge the necessity of a bath, he’d just tremble in fear.
Two weeks after the temporary adoption, he stopped eating. Like all puppies we’d owned before, he just lost appetite and would refuse whatever food we placed on his plate. He was so mired in sickness that his movements seemed strained too and I knew that he was ready to die then. I couldn’t bring myself to deliver him to a veterinarian. My parents were away on the vacation and wouldn’t be home for the week. All puppies that assumed the same behavior died, I remembered, as any food turned spoiled before them. A neighbor said we should take him for a walk. If he ate grass that meant he had a poisoned stomach. To my dismay, he ate weeds of them, an indication that he was hungry and had a bad belly.
There was nothing else to do but wait. In my desperation I prepared a refrigerated cake, cherry cheesecake, let it freeze and planned to make him eat it. He wouldn’t of course. But likewise I wouldn’t give it up. I spooned one on his mouth, forced his jaws up and stuffed the cake down his throat. It didn’t matter if he choked or something. I just knew I had to put something inside him. His eyes were watering, suffering, I guess. He was too weak to fight back which is why he was compelled to swallow. I heaved another one spoonful, and then another until there was nothing left of the slice. It was night, his sleeping time, and I just let him after that unsavory meal, knowing he wouldn’t wake up the next morning.
The first time I did the following sun-up was to check on him. I had partly accepted that he was dead when lo and behold; he was standing up on his own. He was walking, to my great joy, but feebly at that. Although he was quiet I could tell that life went back to him. He was lapping something on his plate. I hastened to him, knowing that the half-rotten food was what he was busy nibbling. His appetite was back! I hurried to the kitchen to serve him food. When I brought it to him, he took no time and gobbled it up in minutes. The joy I felt was indescribable. I knew it was through my hard work that he was resurrected. He was no longer sick. His weight came back along with his lithe. I couldn’t believe it was all because I forced food up in his mouth. I told myself I could make a good veterinarian.
Three days later, however, it was time to say goodbye. The owner picked him up and raised him somewhere else. I don’t know if they kept his name. I don’t know if he ever grew up to be a dog. I never asked; I was too disappointed. But wherever he is now, I hope to hell that that cherry cake is still fresh on his tongue.
posted by Ria D. at
3:53 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home