The more our family becomes acquainted with the young cocker spaniel that entered our lives two months ago, the more it becomes obvious this otherwise sweet and lovable creature named Sicily will not be starring in a riveting new reality series featuring highly intelligent house pets.
“Dogs We Adore Even If They Possess the Brain Power of Creamed Corn,” maybe.
Consider the evidence.
On New Year’s Eve, Sicily surfaced from the basement playroom with a bright orange smear of paint coating the hair around her upper lip, irrefutable proof of a developing interest in our daughters’ art supplies.
“Paint is delicious,” the pleased look on her mug seemed to be saying. “I’ll probably sample the Play-Doh next. Anyone for a glue stick?”
Based on early observations, it is fair to assume the following scenario will soon be playing out at a local vet’s office.
“Mr. Matys, please sit down,” the vet will say, the look of concern on his face telling me that his news is not only extremely troubling but may also involve an expensive follow-up visit that will cost, according to the pricing schedule for animal-care services, “even less than a mid-sized car.”
“I have the X-rays of your dog’s head,” the vet will add ominously while holding the flimsy film sheets up against the light. “If you look closely, I believe you’ll understand the problem.”
I brace myself for the worst and squint, examining the ghostly images for signs of the horrible growth that must be responsible for the dog’s bone-headed behaviour, which includes but is not limited to eating pencils.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see anything.”
“Precisely,” the vet will add. “That’s because” – and here he’ll arch his eyebrows dramatically – “she has no brain.”
A chill descends on the room.
“I knew it,” I’d say, sighing deeply and turning my head just long enough to wipe away the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. “Why else would she willingly devour the arms and legs of my daughter’s Barbie doll? And then there was that strip of paper from the inside of a Christmas cracker. I mean, what sort of animal eats the joke out of a Christmas cracker? It was a really bad joke, too.”
The vet places a hand on my shoulder to show empathy.
“I’m afraid it gets worse. Further examination has revealed something else in the area where her brain should be. This object is so small that it could only be detected by magnifying the X-ray 100 times. Our best guess is that it is a tiny meatball of unknown origin.”
I gasp.
“Is that why I’ve taken to calling her Meatball whenever she barks madly at imaginary creatures in the backyard or consumes non-food items, such as erasers and gift wrapping?”
“Yes, it is,” he’ll add with a comforting pat. “I’m very sorry. Now if you’ll kindly make your way up to the front, you can settle your bill. It’ll be 350.”
“Dollars?”
“Yes. I’m very sorry.”
Tears begin to well in my eyes.
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