"FORGET PHENOBARBITAL"
by Ellen. G. Horovitz

      So,  we were cleaning up the kitchen, the kids and  I.
Bryan,  my  bright-eyed, copper headed, five  year  old  was
doing  that sweep thing with the broom: you know, where  the
kid pretends to clean but really just spreads the mites into
other corners. And Kaitlyn, my blue-eyed, blonde Barbie look-
alike,  helpful  prim  eight year  old  that  she  was,  was
actually  clearing  the table. Can you  imagine?  The  "help
gene" had finally kicked in.
    And  I was piling the unwashed dishes into the sink.  My
Labrador,  Bailey, dutifully took her place  underneath  the
dishwasher, praying for handouts or at the very least, a few
droppings  on  the floor.  My doe-eyed, Bambi-esque,  divine
canine  was,  by default, my garbage disposal. Sure,  I  was
aware that it's the yuppie thing to nourish that sub-species
`Lamb  avec  Rice' or some ungodly concoction that  we  have
designed  to make us feel good about those ground  up  horse

hooves that we feed them.
      But,  I  have to admit, I like the disposal thing.  As
much  as  I love to think that I have really contributed  to
the environment (via the compost bin that I religiously fill
yet never manage to empty), Bailey really is wonderful in  a
pinch:  she  eats  that slop, generic macaroni  and  cheese,
better than any person I know. Hell, she'll even down one of
those "short cut" carrots. You know, the kind they make  for
those harried, overworked, two job, single mother-types like
me. If it weren't for the "prepared food" isle, I'd be dead.
And my kids would have nothing for lunch.
      Sure, I have fantasies of June Cleaver on "Leave it to
Beaver"  and I look to my caretaker, Laurie, as a  demi-god.
She  actually enjoys the mothering thing. She bakes. My idea
of  cooking is gourmet. But in reality, I fall short of Spam
on  toast and Chicken and Stars soup by Campbell. Some women
like  to cook; some women like to write. It's the day job  I
can't shed.
     Anyway, speaking of food, and we were, it's about those
carrots, remember the carrots? Well, I recycled two of those
short  cuts  to Bailey. Remember Bailey? You know  the  slam
hound from recycle Heaven? Well, she's a dawg. She ate them.
I  turned  back  to  my sink, now filled  with  dishes,  and
proceeded  to  funnel  them into the  dishwasher  where  she
champed on those carrots.
     Suddenly, I noticed that Bailey was shaking, all over.
      Now,  what you have to understand here is that earlier
that  day, Bryan had learned the E.D.I.T.H. anachronism   in
Kindergarten  - you know, Emergency Drill In The  Home.  (It
was  Fire  Prevention Week and so he had gone to  the  local
fire  station and had learned how to drop and roll and above
all,  dial  "991" (as he insisted)). Seeing Bailey  in  this
state,  he  thought she was merely doing the EDITH  (or  the
Macarena). It definitely was not the Electric Slide. In  any
event, I knew better. Or at least I thought I did. At  first
glance,  I  remembered the carrots and I thought,  "My  God,
she's  choking on a carrot!" In fact, I felt her  throat  to
feel  if it were lodged there. When that failed to alleviate
the symptom, I actually tried the Heimlich maneuver. I mean,
can  you  imagine how ridiculous it looks to give  a  dog  a
Heimlich  maneuver? And I attempted it not once, but  twice.
But I couldn't get Bailey to elevate. She couldn't get up on
her  legs. Finally, when my stupidity cleared, I remembered.
This  wasn't  a  choking dog, this was  a  genuine,  seizure
disorder.
      I had forgotten that when Bailey was a pup, she wended
her  way  into a metal pole trying to catch a fly ball.  She
was  unconscious and shaking just like this  for  about  two
minutes.  I  thought she was dead, or about to be.  But  she
recovered; for awhile she would do just what she  was  doing
now,  shake uncontrollably and act all paralyzed for  a  few
minutes.
      I  even  asked our veterinarian what we could do.  The
options  were  many,  but one of the top considerations  was
Phenobarbital.  Naturally, I opted to ignore that  protocol,
which is how we got to this place in the story.
     Meanwhile, Bryan was hysterical and screaming at Bailey
to  drop  and roll. Kaitlyn was screeching, "She's going  to
die,  she's  going to die." And I, with little  presence  of
mind,  decided  to get her bowl of water, stupidly  thinking
that might work. Bryan, convinced that I had lost my marbles
by now, screamed repeatedly, "Call 991, call 991!"
       Suddenly,   I   retraced  my  ancestral,   cob-webbed
blueprints  of  my mind and recalled   that she  needed  the
equivalent of an antigen. Hell, it's not like I had smelling
salt  or  something.  But, she was a  canine.  They  run  on
instinct,  pure and unadulterated. As I scanned the  kitchen
for something that would work, suddenly I spied a half-eaten
bowl of Kaitlyn's dinner, chicken and rice. I grabbed it and
put it down at nose level. Miracle of miracle and Eureka!  I
had  found  the  cure: she bolted upright on all  fours  and
gobbled  the  food. Amazing how the olfactory  system  kicks
everything into gear. After all, this was a dog;  you  know,
they  are  truly led around by the nose. It doesn't  take  a
rocket   scientist  to  figure  that  one  out.  So   forget
Phenobarbital. Hello chicken and rice. Add that one  to  the
collective archives of JAMA.



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