My first family dog was half beagle, half dachshund. His name was Oscar. He was a good dog, right up til we euthanized him when I was 13. Not personally, of course, we didn't kill him ourselves. We left that hilarious job up to a professional dog and cat killer, or 'veterinarian'. One of his great moments, I think, occurred when I was in 4th or 5th grade, and living in Denver. My brother, whilst we sat around the breakfast table on a Saturday morning, made a rather startling discovery;
Eric: There's a rope coming out of Oscar's butt!
Dad: Well, get a paper towel and pull it out.
My dad was into letting us do things ourselves. Eric did get a paper towel, and did wrap it around the four inches of rope that hung moistly from Oscar's posterior, and did give all of the strength he had to the task of removing Oscar's dilemma, but found that his 12 year old arms were useless.
Dad relieved Eric, and pulled the rope out himself, though not without some trouble. When he would heave, Oscar's mouth would open a bit and a little yelp would come out. It was a little like Oscar had become a strange doll with a pull cord in it's back, one that didn't utter a catchphrase, but rather uttered an amount of disapproval directly related to the amount of strength one put into the pulling.
Eventually, my father had relieved Oscar of a length of rope that was roughly a quarter of his overall length.
Oscar, like most dogs, couldn't speak, so we were unable to glean any insights into how, or more importantly, why he had ingested 9 inches or so of 3/8" inch rope. We can only assume it was rather uncomfortable, and hope to not have similar issues in the future. Rest in peace, Oscar. I hope you're running around in a great big afterlife off-leash park, and that there isn't anything out of sorts hanging from your fanny.
