Give a Nibble, Take a Nibble

Beg to differ, not defer.

"Gimlet in the Pink," digital collage. (2008) Gimlet Rose

Murphzha innerruuph ahmoomantt?

Ack. That's better. We had something in our mouths. As we sometimes do, we were chewing mercilessly on rawhides. May we interrupt a moment and talk about mouths?

Ours have teeth. Plenty of them. About 42 pointed pearly whites for the average dog. The average human usually has a set of 32, and they're fairly blunt. You're sharp enough to see that we outnumber you.

Let's leave it at that.

The question has been raised: how do you pry open a dog's jaws? The answer is simple: if you want to live long enough to be considered long in the tooth, you let the dog's jaws do the talking.

Would we be prying if we asked what possessed you to ask such a question? Did the dog take something that did not belong to him or her? Certainly that's a matter for mediation. Is the dog in danger of swallowing something horrid? A chicken bone, you say? Ah, well, then ... do a Janet Leigh and scream.

There is nothing quite as hair-raising to a dog, or as jaw-dropping, as a good human scream. Let it out. Bellow. Yowl. Bay at the moon. The higher the pitch of the scream, the quicker your remedy. No dog can tolerate a human pack member in distress. At the very least, we're annoyed at the tiptoeing upon our audial territory.

Let's not delve into the subject of toes and paws, though. Not now.

Back to the bones and the jaws and the mouth: a dog considers the mouth to be sacred. We smile, we bark, we bare our fangs in great shows of theater ... you do not want to enter that realm.

Surprise us. Startle us. Perhaps you can persuade us ... but do not pry.

A yelp helps, and that's the better bite.