Hold the Cheese

My dog and I stared at each other from across the living room. If it wasn’t for the circumstances, I would find this standoff very funny. He stood with his tail high and his paws spread apart like he does when he meets a dog he doesn’t know.

“Whatcha doin’?” I asked him.

“I don’t like what’s going on,” his tail wag seemed to say.

His earthy brown eyes were locked on me, clocking my every breath. His nose twitched like crazy, determined to catch any shift in the air. He sensed something was up. I was by the hallway with one hand behind my back. I had reached my breaking point, and I was out of options.

“This is the only way,” I said before moving my hand.

***

It started with the texture of his fur. He’s always felt super soft to me ever since he was a puppy. When he shed all of his yellow baby fur and grew in his golden adult fur, I was shocked with how much softer it was. A few weeks ago when I felt an oily texture instead of the usual silky strands, I immediately knew something was off. Even on his worse day and in need of a bath, he never felt like that. Then there was the smell. When I first adopted him, I was worried my dear Zagreus would bring with him that signature dog smell. My friends’ dogs all smell like eggs to me, especially if they were outside for a while.

“It’s completely normal,” they said. “Comes with the lifestyle.”

Not my dog. From the first moment the officer at the shelter handed him to me, he smelled like serenity. Even as the precious puppy scent faded as he grew, he always smelled just as good. But then he smelled different. Not good, not bad, just off. It was as if my dog had been switched with a changeling, destined to be the opposite of everything I appreciated about him.

Finally, I knew it was bad when the scratching began. A few days after the fur changes he started to twitch. He wasn’t a fidgety dog, so I went to check on him just in case it was a bug. Before I could get to him, he swung his head around like an angry giraffe and started furiously scratching his head. It was as if he was possessed and the only way to rid himself of evil was by putting all his strength into his back claws. He was so focused on scratching I had to grab his leg until the moment passed. This behavior continued regularly thereafter.

I was determined to figure out what was causing the rapid changes. I obsessively checked him for fleas, ensured the ingredients of his food and shampoo were still the same, and kept an eye on the local wildlife for signs of sickness. The only thing out of the ordinary was him. I tried everything. I bathed him with the medicated shampoos as the vet recommended. I used salves, ointments, and oils. Nothing helped. He was itchy and stinky with no improvement. He needed to wear a cone to stop himself from cobbing his skin raw  and sported a onesie at all hours of the day. The house began to reek of old cheese, the furniture started to have patches of oil, and he didn’t act the same.

I didn’t want to add up how much all the vet visits, remedies, and outfits were costing me, but I knew it was enough to lose sleep over. The funny thing about losing sleep though is that sometimes a great idea will find you. The hazy mind can form plans that a clear mind would consider too rash to put into action. And oh did I plan.

An expedited order and a few YouTube videos later, I found myself in my living room in the middle of a staring contest with my miserable stinky dog. I brought out our new salvation with a flourish. He took a step back. I was always told it was bad to shave a dog, even with the Florida heat. Their fur was made to regulate their temperature, they said, so it was mean to do it. He twitched as if to scratch his neck but resisted the urge, too transfixed by the new device I brandished before me like a sword.

“I don’t like this,” his droopy ears said.

“I have no choice,” I said calmly.

***

Tonight, I was going to celebrate with take out and reality TV. It’s been a week since I retired the potions, cone, and onesie. I sat down on the couch, taking a deep healing breath. Mint, and pine, my favorite house smells. No cheese. I reached for the remote when a smooth warm body knocked my hand off course. I looked at the big brown eyes I knew so well, trying not to laugh. They said dogs could feel embarrassment. Zagreus knocked my hand again, ears and tail drooping low as he trembled. Getting the hint, I wrapped his bald body in his favorite blanket.

“This isn’t right,” his eyes said.

“It’s okay,” I assured him. “You’re okay now.”