In time, it happens to all of us.
Yes, as the muscles that have always been so taut, begin to lose their elasticity, accidents can happen and so measures are taken to prevent moments of humiliation.
“You’ve got it on her upside down,” I said to Paul, as he was fastening the adhesive tapes on either side, after pulling the waist snuggly up around her middle.
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“No, I don’t,” he shot back, giving a final tug.
“Paul,” I said, exasperated, undoing the tapes and removing the thing, “You haven’t even put her tail through the hole and you’ve got the absorbent part of it going over her back!”
“Oh,” he acquiesced, limply.
“Thank heaven we never had a kid,” I went on., “You would have put the diapers on their heads and Lord knows where you would have stuck the pacifier.”
Bonnie, the object of this discussion stood, compliantly, on the bed, and, having never suffered the humiliation of being dressed in baby clothes for selfies, or the entertainment of children, remained trusting if not somewhat disconcerted. She has been prescribed Lasix, the diuretic, to ease the load on her diagnosed enlarged heart and, at 13, has had difficulty containing what’s left in her bladder in the wee hours.
And I do mean wee ... on the bedspread, next to where I spoon up to her each night. Every night. And sometimes the sofa. And my truck.
Having negotiated her nub of a tail (barbaric practice, that, docking an animal’s tail) through the hole in the diaper, I now found it far more difficult to tape the thing together.
“See?” said Paul, a note of triumph in his voice, “I told you – it won’t fasten that way. You’ve got to turn it upside down.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I replied. “She’ll just end up peeing through the tail hole. What good does that do?” Then, noticing the illustration on the package from which this first diaper was taken, the penny dropped.
“There’s a Dachsund on this thing!” I declared, “No wonder it doesn’t fit –Bonnie’s a Jack Russell and you bought her a wiener diaper!”
“But it’s the same weight,” Paul retorted, pointing out the sizing chart beneath the handsome brown canine, poised, alert, commanding and wearing pull-up pants.
“Bonnie has the same in-seam as a whippet,” I countered, “not stubby little legs.”
At this point, Bonnie, weary of being tugged and pulled and prodded by her incompetent parents, sought refuge atop an inviting pile of pillows, stepped delicately out of the diaper as we continued to argue, curled up to sleep ... and dribbled.
The bed was then stripped for the third night in a row.
I know what you’re thinking: “Why don’t you get the dog a bed to sleep in, next to your bed?”
How would you like to be put upon the floor, an object of inconvenience and degradation, just because you had now entered your senior years?
No, Bonnie will remain in the bed with her us, and we will adapt to the situation. With a diaper that fits, perhaps a pad, and a big bottle of Nature’s Miracle.
And what will pee, will pee.
And so it is with our now 13-year-old terrier, Bonnie, who, like many a human, has been on Lasix to assist her diagnosis of enlarged heart.