Gastric grief

On occasional mornings, mom wakes up to little gifts I leave for her on the bedroom floor. Gifts that she claims she can do without, such as bodily emissions I cannot hold until morning.

The only reward I get for leaving these gifts is a mild reprimand, for which I have the mosaic flooring in the house to thank. Believe me, the reaction was a lot less gentle when such offerings were discovered in prime carpeted areas.

Given my tendency to ingest what mom calls as “garbage” and I claim as “food going waste,” combined with a slower metabolism due to my advanced age, mom awoke this morning to find the bedroom floor saturated with the entire contents of my stomach and bladder.

“What the …?” was her initial reaction as she rubbed her crusty eyes and surveyed the room, which had not one unsoiled corner. “Terri!” she yelled, turning toward me, arms akimbo. “Out!” she screamed, as I heaved and threw up what little was left in my stomach.

To cut a long story short, and to fast forward several bouts of vomiting through the day, I seem to have an acute case of indigestion.

“It’s normally associated with eating cow dung,” the vet pronounced as she inserted a fat syringe into my leg.

Ever since we moved to India, I’ve discovered a local delicacy found aplenty in our neighborhood. “You’re disgusting, Terri!” sighs mom, yanking my leash when she finds me dipping into this roadside delight, equally flavorful whether it’s freshly laid or baked in the sun.

Disgusting, indeed! What would she know, this woman who picks a plate of steamed Brussels sprouts over spicy buffalo wings?

Mom’s equally indifferent to another neighborhood delicacy I discovered on a recent beach outing – juicy, gelatinous clams washed ashore by the waves. Too impatient to pry the shells apart, I swallowed them whole, ignoring fine sand on my tongue and savoring, instead, the saltiness of the crustaceans.

“Do I not feed this dog enough?” wonders mom in dismay as she watches me scoop up empty milk sachets, bread wrappers, leftover sambhar and chutney bags on the road faster than her brain can instruct her hand to pull me away.

You see, there comes a time in a dog’s life when he tires of eating boiled eggs and spongy bread for breakfast, rice and dal for lunch, Marie biscuits for tiffin and steamed vegetables with rotis for dinner.

The canine body craves variety, which is why mom has taken to ignoring the gleaming, silvery fish with vacant eyes and pieces of juicy bone that my friends, the crows, occasionally drop over our compound wall as they sit on the coconut trees with their catch.

“The next time he gets indigestion like this, just give him some ice cream,” advised the vet, as mom settled the bill for a grand total of Rs. 150.

“Excuse me?” asked mom, still reeling from a $3 bill for medical services rendered.

“Yes, yes, regular ice cream. Try vanilla,” the woman replied.

Give me a few days to recover, and I might start competing with the kids on Friday nights for ice cream. Vanilla, did she say? At this point, I’m ready to try any flavor, as long as it’s not (bleah!) green tea or broccoli.

That's where even a dog, self-respecting or otherwise, would draw the line.