This week in lawmaking: Our elected reps spent an hour debating a requirement to post signs warning consumers that cocoa mulch is poisonous for dogs. Like a knucklebone eaten by a Pekinese, it passed, narrowly. In case the House wraps up early and still feels frisky, here are some other things dogs eat:
The meatless skeleton of a chicken dragged from the garbage in the dead of the night.
The federal tax code, if dipped in gravy.
You, if it comes to that, and you're not in a position to argue.
And so on. Dog's mouths are nature's version of Amazon's One-Click: Me Want/Me Have. Many years ago my dog harked up a straight pin an inch and a half long. I stared at the mess in amazement -- are you auditioning to be a circus sword swallower? A pin? Branching out into the metal food group now? He was saved by the wisdom of his stomach, which serves as the closest thing to a conscience a dog will ever get.
But some things cannot be so easily returned. The same dog ate a piece of nicotine gum. I chastised him, of course -- I'll let you out in the middle of the night to do the other things, but if you're thinking of whining because you want to go out for a cigarette, forget it. As a new dog owner unaware of the cast-iron properties of canine innards, I took him to an all-night vet, where we sat with half a dozen other beasts who'd eaten a cow femur, a disposable razor, half a pound of hazelnut coffee, the transmission from a '63 Nash, and other assorted delicacies. Including cocoa, I'm sure.
That dog is now 14. He has trouble getting up the stairs, and is either deaf as a brick or tired of my conversation, but otherwise he is the same companion we've had since the first Clinton term.
Not to say a warning isn't wise, but the more warnings we get, the more we ignore the warnings. The other day, in a fit of haste and absent-mindedness, I almost walked in front of a light-rail train. Despite the fact that the bright shiny contraptions rumble past Strib HQ all the time with the scissor-grinding glissando of the wheels and the KANG KANG KANG of the bell, I was still a few steps away from being Tragic Jam. You could insist the city put up signs: WARNING. TRAIN. DO NOT BE IN FRONT OF IT, but if I haven't gotten the point by now, no sign would help. (Unless it said THIS BAG IS NOT A TOY, which always confuses me. It's not?)