It all started because I thought there was fried chicken on the ground.
You have to understand that in Louisiana, where I lived for most of my life, finding discarded fried chicken on the ground is not uncommon. So when Ike grabbed something off the sidewalk the other day, I was sure it was yesterday's chicken, ready to rip up Ike's insides and cause internal bleeding that would lead to his untimely demise.
(I'm a very glass-half-full kind of person.)
I made a snap decision that I was going in. And by that I mean that I stuck both of my arms in his mouth -- one hand held his top jaw open, the other held the bottom -- and shook his head, hoping the chicken bone would fall onto the ground.
It's important to note that when you stick your hands deep down the throat of a dog who is in the process of chewing something delicious, he'll probably bite you. That happened. Right on that soft piece of skin between my thumb and forefinger. I never realized how crucial that part of my body is to, well, function. I will never take it for granted again.
Anyway, I persevered, determined to get the chicken bone to freefall out of Ike's mouth.
And it did.
Except it was a granola bar, not fried chicken.
Lesson learned -- in Shreveport people litter leftover fried chicken. In Minneapolis, they litter granola bars.