A Therapeutic Treatment for Puppy Deliria (don’t try this at home kids without supervision and a gas mask) by Chris Devaney 5/30/14 There was a horn knocking at the glass door and I wondered which yak had something on its mind. “Hey Duo-legs! Get out here. We need to have a chin fest!” And I knew I’d be mentally grappling with Peanut’s intellect. A chin fest? This should be interesting. So I went out and sat on the yak porch, Peanut followed and crashed down beside me. “Good job on laying Mr. Green Jeans to rest. He was a nice man, a kind one, there was a streak of discernable character running though that yak’s veins. I will miss his company.” said Peanut. “Thanks,” said I, “I’ll miss him too. Now what’s bothering you today, big guy?” “It’s those young grenades you brought home the other day. They are crazy! They are making everyone here absolutely miserable. They drive us here, they drive us there . . . they bite everything they can reach, there’s no purpose in the madness. All they want to do is to stoke us up and keep us fired up. Can’t you do something with them? Like put them in a cell or something, or even better, ring their necks?” I realized Peanut had a legitimate gripe. Those young torpedoes (2 English Shepherd puppies and a 2-year old Blue Heeler rescue dog) are not cut out to promote peace in this world. And for sure I had to do something, but more importantly, I had to come up with a plan on the spot so Peanut wouldn’t try his trusted plan B of thumping sense into me. So I stalled for time. “Peanut,” says I, “I believe they are afflicted with a temporary syndrome called ‘deliria’. It’s a weird fluke, not all dogs get it, but it goes away. The odd thing about it is that they don’t suffer . . . no, they sure don’t . . . everyone else around them suffers instead. Kinda neat disease, eh?” “Well, you got meds for it?” he inquired. “Actually no,” said I, “We treat canine dileria with therapy. It goes like this . . . what I have to do is interrupt a normal everyday innocuous behavior pattern and quickly change it to something else. Being so innocuous, it seeps right into their tiny little brains, just like yours, and establishes the change pattern which then leads to other changes. It produces sort of a snowball effect. Before you know it, they are cured, all bad habits are replaced by perfectly good ones and so then everyone else has to dream up their own misery instead of relying on the dogs to produce it. Oh, I forgot. I also have to feed them olives. Lots of olives.” Peanut looked at me dubiously. Had I had a mirror handy, I would have looked at myself dubiously too as I wondered where the hell that idea came from. “Anyway, big guy, therapy has already begun. You should expect a change momentarily.” And I hoped it was enough time for me to sneak away without being awarded a horn strike on the arm. “Are you going to tell me just how you plan to do this?” he asked. “Sure, sure, sure. Of course I will big buddy. Of course. Ahhh . . . Ummm . . .” and then the clouds parted, the sun came out and I was blessed with another miracle. The grand plan, the plan of all plans fell from the sky out of nowhere right into my lap. Hell, I might just use it, thought I. And so I began: “Well, my good man,” I said, “every night when we go to bed they all pack around me in an ever-so-tight bundle, and so now, whenever I fart, instead of waking them up individually and saying ‘Excuse me’ . . . my mother taught me that . . .” “Wait a minute,” Peanut interrupted, “Your mother taught you how to fart?” I could see wheels turning in his tiny brain saying “That sure ’splains a lot.” I ignored his interruption and went on, “So instead of saying ‘excuse me’ as I normally would do, and which is what they fully expect to hear after being woken up so suddenly, instead I say ‘God bless me!’. You wouldn’t believe the change in them, Peanut. It’s miraculous. They sit up on the bed look at each other, stretch their necks up and pant as if trying to reach fresh, unmolested air. And then they lie right down without taking a bite out of my face or ripping to shreds another blanket. It just changes their behavior . . . poof! just like that!” and I snapped my fingers for effect. “Just like that . . .!” bemoans Peanut as he moved his big hoof in an attempt to snap his hoof claws. Then he gave me one of those ‘what the hell is wrong with you’ looks he is so famous for. He stood up towering over me and I fully expected a whomping, which he is also famous for when he doesn’t hear exactly what he wants to hear, but instead he said, “Duo-legs, you are an idiot! Without doubt, you need a new set of valves.” His head was bobbing up and down in certain disgust. “It is so very clear to me that the blood from your heart never makes it all the way up to your head! Only the shit does.” He shook his massive head once more and then jumped down off the porch. As he sauntered away, belly hair flopping side to side in stark contrast to the long hairy tail wagging back and forth in opposite synchronization, I could hear him muttering . . .”I can’t believe it . . . his mother had to teach him to fart!” So impressed was I that Peanut didn’t head bump me, it was clear and unmistakable evidence that the therapy worked. I fully believed I was on to something worth publishing in, say, a religious psychiatric journal or some such repository for unlikely miracles. And for the first time since adolescence, I couldn’t wait to fart the night away. God bless us all!
Posted on: Fri, 30 May 2014 13:38:06 +0000
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