As predicted, Queen Alpha Folly caught on to the icing ploy. She wouldn’t take the treat from my hand, so I’d be forced to lay it near her head after she crawled into her comfy orthopedic bed (one the she stole from another of fosters, Birdie). From this vantage point, she would lick the frosting, tingling her little canine taste buds until she struck Tramadol, at which point she would discard the soggy saltine and saliva-ed icing and meds. As a further bonus, I’d end up with streaks of this nastiness on my (admittedly) highly unattractive olive green carpet (Have I mentioned the house is called the 1968 Time Warp Palace? I can only do so much renovation at one time!).
But I’ve hit on a new tactic – beef sticks. Those greasy little bits of so-called beef (I have my doubts) that most often accompany cheese trays at parties or serve as effective alcohol soakers after a long night of consumption when a diner is unavailable to stave off nausea or hangovers.
She loves ’em, not surprisingly, so now I’m poking a hole in the little suckers with a fork and pushing the pills into the small cynlinders of artery clogging goodness. She’s so enraptured (dogs are in their carnivores don’t forget, if not ones with the most evolved palates), she swallows the damn things whole. If she keeps that up, I’m golden. My biggest fear is that she’ll inexplicably develop some manners and actually decide to chew – then I’m screwed.