Chapter Eleven: A Deadly Hook Lurks in My Stomach

Sally May’s Lament

Hank, I just don’t understand,

What’s your plan, how you can

Do the crazy things that you do.

I can make no sense at all,

Off the wall, of all the gall,

Tell me this is not really true.

How in thunderation, Hank, could you have done this latest thing?

Swallowed down a fishhook—and even ate the string!

I don’t want to get involved,

Don’t ask me to try to solve

This latest brainless stunt that you’ve hatched.

I have many things to do,

Not including things that you

Bring to me and drop in my lap.

I deserve my quiet time, planting flowers in my yard.

But here you are again—good Lord, you make it hard!

How’s a woman to react

To this latest stupid act?

Don’t we give you plenty to eat?

If we took the money that

We spend on dogs, spend on cats,

We could buy a mountain retreat.

We’ve tried to raise our son up right, filled his room with noble books.

But his best friend is a dog—who gobbles fishing hooks!

By the time she had finished her song, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned and saw Slim and Alfred coming into the yard. Alfred was tugging at Slim’s hand, trying to get some speed out of him, but that wasn’t easy. Slim does things at his own pace, which is somewhere between slow and slower.

But at last they arrived on the scene. Sally May cast a worried glance towards Slim. So did Little Alfred. So did I. I mean, this was a time to be worried, right? He pushed his hat to the back of his head and shifted his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

“Ate a fishhook, huh?”

Well, I . . . no, I didn’t exactly eat a fishhook. That would have been a silly thing to do. I ate a piece of meat, see, and it happened to be attached to a . . . well, to a hook. A fishhook. So to answer the question, yes, a fishhook had been swallowed.

Slim shook his head. “Hank, you are such a birdbrain.”

I . . . I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I swept my tail across the grass and tried to squeeze up a little smile.

Sally May spoke. “Slim, is there anything . . . look, I don’t want to sound cruel and unfeeling, but our budget this month is tight. There’s nothing in it for major surgery at the vet clinic to remove a . . .” She shot me a glare. “. . . a fishhook from a dog’s stomach, for crying out loud.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So is there something we might try . . . is there anything we could do here to get it out? I’ll be honest, Slim, this is beyond the realm of my experience.”

“Yalp.” He shifted his weight to his other leg. “Well, there might be. I went through this once before with a dog that ate a turkey heart that was attached to a hook.”

“Yes, and?”

“You’ve got to make the dog throw it up. Soap. You got some dish warshing soap in a squeeze bottle?”

“Yes, right beside the sink. Alfred, go fetch it, and hurry.”

The boy headed for the house in a run. Slim continued. “See, you squirt the soap into his mouth and hold his jaws shut, so’s he can’t spit it out. Once he swallers enough of it, his old stomach’ll pitch it back up.”

“How dainty.”

“And if you’re lucky, the hook’ll come out with the soap.”

“I see. And if it doesn’t?”

He shrugged. “If his stomach dissolves that piece of liver, it’ll expose the barb, and then we might have a problem.”

Sally May looked off to the horizon. “The things we do for our children.”

“Yalp. But maybe it’ll work.”

Alfred came flying out of the house and handed Slim a white plastic squeeze bottle. Then the boy hugged his momma’s leg and watched. Slim took a deep breath and sat down in the grass. He dragged me over to him and threw a leg around my middle.

“Are you ready for this, pooch? It ain’t going to be fun for either one of us, but even less for you than for me. Open up.”

Okay, I was as ready for it as I ever would be. It was just soap, right? A squirt or two of soap and then it would all be over. I figured I could handle it. What was a little dab of soap in the mouth? No big deal, and a whole lot better than a fishhook. Yes, I was ready.

I heard the wheeze of the squeeze bottle, and felt something soft and warm upon my tongualary region. This wasn’t so . . . but he kept shooting that stuff into my mouth, and all at once . . . hey, that was enough . . . all at once my mouth began picking up the taste of . . .

THAT STUFF TASTED HORRIBLE!

Hey, forget this. I thought we’d been talking about a little dab of soap, but he just kept pumping it in there! I began flicking my tongue back and forth, in a desperate effort to get that nasty stuff out of my mouth, but you know what he did? He clamped my jaws shut and held on!

I couldn’t spit. My mouth was filling up with . . . with slimy soap and bubbles and yucky foam, and all at once I was having trouble breathing and . . . okay, I had to swallow it, just to get it out of my mouth so I could breathe!

I swallowed. It was awful, but at least the deed was done.

Slim patted me on the head. “Way to go, pooch, we’re done with Step One. Three more treatments and maybe we’ll get some results.”

I stared at him in disbelief. What? Three more treatments, my foot! No way, Charlie. If I had to die, let it be from a fishhook, not from Soap Poisoning.

Just for a second he relaxed his leg-lock around my middle. I saw my opportunity and went into Digging Mode on all four legs. I fought and struggled with all my might, and all at once I popped out of his grasp. Once free, I set sail for the front yard.

Behind me, I could hear Slim yelling. “Hank, come here, boy. Here Hankie, nice doggie, come on back.”

Ha! Was he crazy? No thanks. I’d swallowed all the soap I needed for about fifty years.

“Alfred, go around the north side of the house. We’ve got to catch him and get some more soap down him. If you get close, jump him and hang on. I’ll go around the south side of the house.”

I heard them coming. I dived underneath a cedar bush in front of the house and peered out. I could see them now—Alfred creeping around the northeast corner of the house and Slim coming around the southeast corner. Sally May followed Slim, with Baby Molly riding on her hip.

They all met near the yard gate. They were looking around in all directions and talking in low voices. They couldn’t see me. I was safe, as long as . . .

HARK!

What lousy luck. One of those soap bubbles got caught in my throat, and it was either cough or choke. I coughed and they heard it. All three pairs of eyes pointed straight at me, and Slim began creeping towards the shrub.

“Come on, Hankie, we’ve got to get that hook out of you before it’s too late. Come on, boy, be a nice puppy.”

Ha! I’d heard that before, that “nice puppy” business, and it had always meant bad news for me. No way. If they wanted to sit around and eat soap all afternoon, that was fine, but they’d do it without me.

I lay there, motionless, and watched as Slim dropped down on his hands and knees. “Come on, Hankie, just a little more.”

No. I wasn’t coming out, never ever.

Then Little Alfred came up. His lip was trembling and he had tears shining in his eyes. “Hankie, come out, pweese. I don’t want you to die fwom a hook. Eat some more soap, pweese.”

Well . . . how can a dog say no to his fishing buddy, his best pal in the world? If Alfred thought I needed some more soap . . . ugh . . .

I lay still while Slim reached his hand into my hiding place. He caught me by a back leg and pulled me out.

He leg-locked me again and we continued with the Soapotherapy. Did it work? Was I saved from the Deadly Fishhook?

I’m sorry, I can’t reveal that information. It’s too scary, too secret and sensitive. If you want to find out, you’ll have to keep on reading.