A New Take on Edible Panties

His name is Oliver and despite his signed and sealed purebred assurance papers he turned out to be some kind of mutant dog. Oh, I’m not talking about a fifth leg or anything, just a random recombination of recessive traits that saw to it he’d be five times his expected size with random colors exploding in tufts of hair across the entirety of his body. I don’t quite think Oliver’s fetish for growling at leaves as they blow across the pavement in the wind constitutes mutation, but I offer it here for those who think weirdness in a dog’s genome is followed by weirdness in its attitude. As a tiny puppy he fancied sleeping in one of my ball caps, even pulling it from my head to do so. Now, a good running leap yields upwards of 300 PSI per paw, punching hearts out of human chests, as he sofa-stalks passers-by through the front window.

Perhaps in his canine zeal for Thanksgiving, Oliver, last week, ate an entire dirty diaper. No ladies and gentlemen, not just the diaper contents, the sudden shock of a six week old’s valiant attempt to self-launch into space, but also the diaper itself, Baby Elmo decal and all. My wife awoke to change and to feed the baby for the third time during the night, not exactly making it all the way to the Diaper Champ (genies freak us out) in the next room. Come alarm time, only two diapers were to be found. We thought we’d lost it. We thought we were too tired and hadn’t remembered correctly. We even came up with random sleepwalking tales and matrices of denial to explain away the missing poopy diaper.

It all became clear about 36 hours later when Oliver began pooping out tiny blue absorption crystals and undigested Elmo feet on the order of thrice a day. (Yeah, I said thrice! What’s it to ya?) Poor thing didn’t get the full re-recycled load out of his system for another 2 days thereafter. Interestingly enough, it was as if nothing was wrong. He ate his breakfast on every such day as normal. He never looked sick or depressed. He played as he normally would and bruised three of my ribs after catching a glimpse of a squirrel through the window, as is customary in my household.

Disgusting though the prospect may have been, I was rather impressed. Sure, I’ve been of the uninformed opinion that a dog’s immune system is among the finest known to the animal kingdom, and by animal kingdom I mean downtown Rochester. I’ve heard all the exaggerated stories about dog saliva saving precious lives and the expert canine stomach tolerances to the world’s nastiest swill. I’ve even witnessed Oliver, himself, finding and eating something that I can only describe as a raw, under-dumpster squid. Still, the diaper incident seemed somehow different, somehow impressive. It was a feat.

I found myself coveting Oliver’s immune system, at least as it relates to his digestive tract. It’s as if he had built-in super-Tums. I eat one bowl of bran flakes and my wife has to get a soundproof room at the Best Western.

So, though I have never quite understood the people who give pets all-dog birthday parties with little hats or who send signed cards between cats, I am now one of them. I am setting up a trust for my dog, a trust that will require Oliver to write a last will and testament. And, as his owner, advisor, and poop scooper, I am going to have it put into said will that when Oliver passes, I get whatever gland he has that can happily digest an entire dirty diaper without leaving a trace. Then my friends, then we will feast!