So you think a dog may be just what you need to make your life complete. A furry companion to take for walks and play catch with. Sure, you know there will be the odd trip to the vet for rabies shots and some scooping of poop and perhaps the cost of a fancy red bandana for the dog’s neck. And that just about covers it, right?

Wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I won’t go into the biting of delivery persons or the shedding of hair or the chewing up of your best shoes and the ruin of all your rugs. Nor will I dwell on one of the latest canine crazes — brushing your dog’s teeth to prevent bad breath. Instead, I will tell you the story of an ordinary dog called Augusta.

My wife bought her for $25 on a back road in the country. She was a mixture, some Lab, some Shepherd, some mystery. She was a charming puppy and grew to be a mid-size dog who barked at intruders, then jumped up on them and licked them to death. She flourished on table scraps and the odd dead squirrel, and she loathed dog food unless she was starving. And she hated taking pills.

That was a shame because all dogs at some time have to take pills — large pills. Dogs bolt their food so most can be fooled by wrapping the pill in cheese or hiding it in ice cream. And down it all goes. This worked with Augusta for about a year. Then she started chewing each mouthful and spitting out the pills.

“Pry her mouth open, place the pill on the back of her tongue, then hold her mouth closed until she swallows,” said the vet.

There probably are docile dogs with priable mouths, but not Augusta. When I got my hands around her muzzle, the first thing I saw was a formidable array of teeth and the first thing I heard was a low, rumbling growl. When we finally got a pill in, I held her mouth closed for five minutes. When I let go, out came a soggy pill.

We now administer pills by grinding them up, adding a bit of water, loading them in a syringe and shooting them in a gap between her teeth. I make the gap by donning the gloves I use when I’m running a chain saw and prying her mouth open. Ah, the joys of dog ownership.

The reason we were dosing her with pills was that she’d started scratching. First her ears, then her neck. Then, she started chewing. First her feet, then her rump. And there was, of course, continuous licking of her private parts.

We took her to the vet and we got pills, ear spray and tail wipe, but nothing seemed to work. And one day the vet suggested we take her to the dermatologist.

“Two things,” I say. “First, she’s covered with fur and second how do I smuggle her into a dermatologist? Put her in a poke bonnet and a smock, and hope no one screams in the waiting room?”

“Two things,” the vet replied. “First, that stuff under her fur is called skin and she is covered with it. And, second, there are dog dermatologists.”

When he said that, I heard the cash registers ring.

And right I was.

Because when your dog is moaning and chewing — even though not all the time — you have to do what is right by the dog owners’ code. That meant cleaning off a credit card, booking an appointment — with a two-month wait — in the big city and finally carting her off.

Afterwards, it meant buying ultra-special dog food (goodbye table scraps), two kinds of dog shampoo, one kind of conditioner, special dog wipes, a special foot-soaking solution and pills the size of jelly beans — but not as tasty.

These were the first steps in her treatment and we are about to haul her back for an extended appointment — using a new credit card — and possibly another round of medications.

My fear now is that her illness is psychosomatic and that will mean a trip or two to the dog psychiatrist. But that is another story. IE

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