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Diagnosis: Black Lab Nut by Rudy Wilson Galdonik

For Humor Is Relative's readers enjoyment here is another excerpt from Rudy Wilson Galdonik's book "Take Heart!". After recovering from open heart surgery Rudy and her husband, Bill, consider having children but unsure if they were ready for the leap into the world known as parenthood. What else to do but practice?

After several years of marital bliss and a round of heart surgery, the biological clock was now free to tick-tick, which slowly began to sound more like a gong-gong. Time for kids. Kids? This meant assuming responsibility for another living being. Could we do it? It seemed doubtful, so we decided on a plan - a test. We'd have a baby, but the four-legged kind. Then, if we were able to keep that kid alive for two years, we'd add a human.

Enter Sofie. After falling in love with our neighbor's black Lab, we found a breeder whose litter was born on our wedding anniversary: an omen that this child was meant to be. The runt was our new baby. Twenty-four hours after we cradled out baby in pink bunting to bring her home, she began to bleed when she went to the bathroom.

In a panic, we rushed her to an emergency vet, paying double for his services because it was the Fourth of July. He quickly informed us, "Take her back. Get a new one." What? We had poured our love into this dog for 24 hours. A new one? Trade her in? It was all Bill could do to keep me from leaping over the examining table and choking this cold-hearted fool. Instead, we took home every medication known to veterinarian science and maintained an all-night vigil at our baby's bedside.

The next day Bill had been planning to fly to see his folks, but with a sick child there was no way he could leave until the crisis passed. This meant that he had to turn in his advance purchase ticket in for a much higher-priced one after Sofie made a remarkable recovery the next day. The financial commitment of parenthood was starting to show. Had a wooden thermometer been mounted on our front lawn to track the financial output we were investing in our child, its numbers would have rivaled the annual budget of some Third World countries.

But the financial commitment didn't end with medical expenses. Once Sofie regained her health, we found out she was one mischievous puppy. She had a tendency to eat things - like my $45 white European goose down pillow while Bill's $7 polyester fiberfill pillow lay untouched. But we understood the art of the kill. Sofie was a retriever, after all, and she was just looking for the duck.

The destruction of the couch was not as easy to accept. After rebuilding and upholstering an antique sofa, I came home one day to find it in little tiny pieces - itsy-bitsy little pieces - all over the living room. The only thing left was the wooden frame. It turns out my Italian upholsterer had used horsehair lining and, sure enough, Sofie was looking for the horse. We were impressed with her keen sense of smell.

When the upholsterer returned to redo the job he had just completed the week before, his mouth dropped open at what remained of his handiwork.

"Other than fire, I have never seen such destruction," he murmured as he carried the sofa back out to his truck.

"Just don't forget to leave the horse out this time," I called out as a reminder.

Then there was the neon yellow Playtex Living Glove®. It was missing from my sink one morning, and the next day I noticed Sofie struggling to go to the bathroom. Sure enough, out of her butt came a human finger, bright yellow, showing no signs of its route through Sofie's digestive system. It was followed by another and yet another finger until an entire human hand slowly worked its way out. Amazing! Despite the fact that there was no damage to the glove, I decided it was time to purchase a new pair.

The next week Sofie sipped some wax stripper as I was redoing floors. About 30 minutes later she began to convulse as she vomited the contents of her stomach. Panicked, I called the local poison control to find out how to save my baby.

"I have this dog and ...," I started in after the phone was picked up on the first ring.

"Please hold," was the curt answer.

Seconds turned into minutes as I realized these people just didn't understand, so I hung up and dialed again.

"My daughter just drank wax stripper." This got their attention. A physician was on the phone in a second.

"She vomited all over the place but it seems to have slowed," I continued.

The doctor wanted all my daughter's details. Where was she now?

"Under the bed," I slipped.

"What?"

"She must be afraid. She does that sometimes," I countered, realizing this conversation was going to have to be carefully thought out.

"Ask her where it hurts."

"She can't talk," I stammered. I had no earthly clue whether 2-year-old humans could speak or not. Now my kid would have to have some kind of mental handicap which probably more aptly supplied to her mother.

Fortunately the doctor never suspected a thing. Sofie vomited all of the poison out of her system, and poison control even called back later that evening to see how my little girl was doing. I just made sure I answered the phone before Bill when it rang.

Humorous Book Recommendations:             [ view all ]
Take Heart! True Stories of Life, Love, and Laughter
[Rudy Wilson Galdonik; 197 pages]
Rudy was born, as she shares in the excerpt "And the Thump-Psssh Goes On", with a hole in her heart but also with a marvelous gift for finding humor in her life. Readers will giggle, laugh, cry, feel the heart strings being tugged, and then finding themselves laughing out loud while reading this memoir. I enjoyed this book and oh-so-could relate at times. Can you relate?

I think it's a good story, and I've had a good time telling it.
-- William (Bill) Jefferson Clinton My Life

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If your parents never had children, chances are... neither will you.
-- Dick Cavett

G M: So, Mrs. Smith, do you have any children?
S: Yes, thirteen.
G M: Thirteen! Good lord, isn't that a burden?
S: Well, I love my husband.
G M: Lady, I love my cigar but I take it out of my mouth once in a while.
-- Groucho Marx on You Bet Your Life