And then Yoda blinked
What to do when a dog stops eating? Yoda had completely lost his appetite for kibble and other ‘doggy food’ while he was not well. George gave us some practical advice. ‘Find something that he likes, and give it to him. It doesn’t matter what it is. He needs to eat’.
Tyson’s roasted chicken breasts. Microwaved till the skin glistened, the juices dripped, and the aroma of chicken flooded the entire house. Yoda would do his dance of joy, while the chicken was being warmed up, and then cut into tiny little strips. He would reach a frenzied state as we waited for the cool down. His feet would do a tap dance on the kitchen floor. Chop Chop. Get on with it. Take your finger out. FEED ME. His body language was very clear. At chicken time, he would not be trifled with.
Two months passed, and Yoda was on the mend. George brought us bad tidings. Yoda had to get back on to a balanced diet. Pure chicken was good and tasty, but not healthy. Yoda needed to go back on to his kibble.
It’s like being told that you have to change your eating habits, go on a healthy diet, consume all the food groups, and bring balance into your consumption. Doctors always want to make you weep into your foie, and deny you the foie to weep into.
Yoda went on strike. He absolutely refused to eat his food. He would go up to it, sniff elegantly, make a nose, flounce off to a corner, and plop himself down with a ‘humph, if that’s your attitude’ kind of sigh.
We empathized. Tyson’s chicken smells fantastic, and tastes very good. How would we react if we were reduced to eating musty brown bits of industrial pellets, when we had got used to high protein, high fat, well textured pieces of roast chicken? We know the agony of people who go off the steak and cream Atkins diet, and contemplate their daily bowl of steamed vegetables. The iron has entered their soul, and it would be wise to keep a safe distance, talk softly, and avoid any form of provocation. So it was, with Yoda.
Eight pounds of determination. Versus two adults torn between ‘this hurts me more than it hurts you’, and ‘would it do him that much harm to have some Tyson’s?’ We got lots of sympathy from George, but no flexibility. We would have to ride it out. Yoda would eventually eat his kibble, just to stave off hunger.
As we sat at the dining table, Yoda would watch reproachfully from a distance. With every morsel we ate, his big eyes would seem to glisten, and he would put his head down between his paws. The sight of us eating seemed to fill him with great sadness.
Our game of chicken lasted forty eight hours. Believe me, we counted. And then Yoda blinked. He ate his dry food. He ate his wet food. He slurped down lots of water. And he went to sleep.
We knew what Kennedy must have felt like after the Cuban missile crisis.
Oct 26, 2008 | | Book
