Ask Emily Post

WARNING:  This post is rated VC for violent content by P.E.T.A. and the Audubon Society.

Dear Emily Post, I need your advice.  Please respond ASAP.  Even though many years have passed, I have to buy a gift for the following reason.

Several years ago, I surprised my then husband Mike with a trip to Tahiti and Bora Bora.  He had always dreamed of going there, and for a lark I thought it would be fun to spring it on him after ski season.

He was flabbergasted- and truly delighted.  But we had a problem. Our dogs- Andy, our Scottie, and Killarney, the Siberian Husky.  We would be gone for a couple of weeks and they needed to be cared for.

Andy was cinchy.

He happily went off to Boulder with my son, Nick, and his wonderful girlfriend Gina G.  They both adored him and I knew he would be in capable hands.

Gina took him with her everywhere on campus.  (I always teased that Andy actually attended more college classes than Nick.)

And Gina spoiled him so thoroughly- changing his bottled water at every meal- that he sulked a little when he came back home and was treated only as a mere canine and not as an emperor.

But Killarney was a different kettle of fish.  She was terribly old by then and had diabetes.  I had to give her insulin shots every day and she had to be monitored carefully.

Mrs. Post, I had tried to teach Nick and Gina how to inject her.  Their eyes were as big as dinner plates as I showed them how to carefully roll the insulin bottle, fill the syringe and gently tap it to make sure there were no air bubbles.

I did all this while I filled the dog bowls with breakfast, pointing out that when Killarney was wolfing down her morning repast she hardly noticed the tiny jab.

As I turned back to the kids with the dog bowls in hand, the syringe was in its usual place.

My mouth.

Nick took one look at me and backed out of the room.

“Dude, you look so hard core,” he breathed in horror.

(Query: Mrs. Post, is it correct and proper for my son to call me “Dude?”  Just asking.)

Any way, I wasn’t too surprised by his reaction.  I knew Nick had a phobia about needles – although that didn’t stop him from getting tattooed.  (ICYMI Mrs. P. please see Tattoo You)  Besides, one dog was all they could handle comfortably. Killarney needed truly expert attention.

Which led me to my vet.  Dr. Scott Dolginow was fabulous and he had the greatest staff in the world.  I told them my problem.

“Of course, we will take Killarney while you’re away,” his receptionist Michelle said.  “She’s too old and too sick to be stressed at a kennel.”

I was so relieved.  So was Mike.  She really was his dog.  He had owned her mother, bred her, and Killarney was the pup he had kept. So naturally he wanted her to be comfortable while we were out of the country.

“And you know what I’ll do?” continued sweet Michelle.  “We’ll keep her here during the day, but when I go home at night, I’ll take her with me. That way I can watch her.”

We were both surprised and thrilled at her generous offer.  This was way better than we had ever expected.

Well, Mrs. Post, the trip was terrific.  Tahiti, Bora Bora and the surrounding little atoll islands were a dream.  Hot beyond belief in April, but unspoiled and so beautiful.

Everything smelled of vanilla and was in French.  Magnifique!  And I never saw so many shades of blue in one place.

When we got back to Colorado the first thing we did was go to the vet’s office to pick up Killarney.

“How did it go?” I asked Michelle.  “Was she any trouble?”

“No, she was perfect.  Everything went fine,” she reassured Mike and me.

And so we gathered her up and drove her home.  Nick and Gina drove Andy down from school the following weekend.

Killarney did finally die of extreme old age.  She just wore out.

And about a year later I happened to run in to Michelle at the dog park.  I was happy to see her.

And then it happened…

“I never knew how to tell you this,” she said.  “Remember when Killarney stayed at my house last year?”

“Of course,” I smiled.  “You were so nice to take her.”

“I don’t know if I should tell you this but…”

Now I was alarmed.

“What happened?” I cried.

“The very first night I brought her home, I had forgotten that my parrot was out of its cage and walking around.”

Uh oh.

“I had no sooner opened the front door when Killarney dashed in, and before I could stop her…”

UH OH.

“She pounced on it and killed it.  And then she ate it.”

OMG.

“She ate your pet? Why didn’t you say anything to us?” I wailed in disbelief.

“Well, I didn’t want to mention it because Mike is so nice and I knew he’d be upset…”

“How long had you had the parrot?  Could he talk?” I was absolutely miserable.

“Nine years.  Yes, he could talk a blue streak.  But don’t feel too badly, Ellen.  It was all my fault.  I should have realized that even though Killarney was old, she was still quick.  That dog was a hunter.”

So here’s my question, Mrs. Post.  What do you buy someone when your dog has eaten their boon companion?

(And why didn’t that damn bird cry for help?)

Thank you, Mrs. Post.  I know you’ll come up with just the right gift for the occasion.

Now take a look at another dog that’s really quick.

And don’t worry. No parrots were harmed in the making of this video.

Now watch the birdie.