|Sputnik in her natural habitat|
|Lakia, the intrepid pioneer of the Soviet Space Program|
|The contents of Sputnik's stomach|
(she vomited at least this much prior)
|I've gutted deer with smaller incisions|
Sputnik is a twenty-four pound Whippet / Jack Russell hybrid, (mongrel) I obtained from the Jerkwater County Humane Society and Livestock Auction about a month ago. She was summarily stripped of her reproductive organs and implanted with tiny microchips so she could be tracked and monitored, via satellite, by The NSA and various other Government agencies. I believe she is a direct descendant of Lakia the little dog the commies launched into space in the sixties, becoming the first Earthling to ever slip the surly bonds of the green planet to briefly float among the heavens. The little, unwitting space dog orbited the planet several times before plummeting back to earth in a fiery semi-controlled crash landing, into some Godforsaken Russian swamp.
When I’m away collecting aluminum cans and scrap copper, the dogs are housed in the garage. Sputnik and Mudflap spend their days licking themselves and discussing the merits of various brands of dog foods, current events and international politics. In the interest of her comfort, I supplied Sputnik with an old sleeping bag to lie on which, unbeknownst to me, she promptly ate.
Last week while I sat reading the latest edition of Ladies Home Journal, Sputnik stood, arched her back, and vomited a large pile of polyester and nylon on the living room floor. I thought, ‘this can’t be good,’ and continued my reading. The next morning she puked once again, this time along with the polyester and nylon, a small offensive glob of semi-digested dog food was also deposited. That evening Sputnik followed up with a puddle of vile liquid with traces of synthetic fabric and a Belgian waffle. As I cleaned up this latest nauseating mess, contemplating a hefty vet bill, I wondered why the hell I ever acquired this little pain in the ass mutt. Mudflap and I were doing just fine without her. Nevertheless, I made an appointment and took her to the vet.
Housed in a dilapidated block building on the outskirts of town, the Jerkwater Animal Clinic looks like a bombed-out Afghani school house, and once inside smells of cat piss, Lysol and death. I related Sputnik’s symptoms to the kindly horse doctor and he took her back for X-rays. When he returned he put the results of her stomach X-ray on the screen. It seems Sputnik was especially fond of fasteners, because about eighteen inches of zipper and a several snaps were clearly visible, along with a large wad of undigested sleeping bag stuffing.
After all said and done, many stitches and six-hundred dollars later, the little shit is recovering nicely. Seems that despite her suspected ties to the Soviet Space Industry, Sputnik is no rocket scientist. Her outlook for a full recovery is promising and she should do fine if I can just keep her from ingesting camping equipment.