I have no knowledge of medicine, but I can give you the best medical advice you’ll ever hear. It is this: If you have a medical issue — any medical issue — do not, under any circumstances, look it up on the internet.

I’m sure there’s good medical advice on the net. But I’m also sure a lot of what you’ll find is just plain wrong. And another bunch of it will put you in a state of terror seen nowhere outside of a Stephen King novel. I had that lesson driven home a few weeks ago, and the agent of my enlightenment was my dog Jesse.

If you convert Jesse’s age to human years, he and I are in the same life stage — that is, between silver-haired seniority and full-blown senescence. He was rescued from a Tennessee trailer trash family who I’m sure were his mental, physical and moral inferiors.

He’s a classic hound — long and lean, with floppy ears, big nose, a sweet disposition and an expression that can only be described as “dopey.” But it’s a ruse, because he’s as clever as a Times Square pickpocket — especially when he wants to score food. If there’s something he wants to eat, he doesn’t lower himself to sitting up and begging, rolling over, playing dead, or any of that subservient folderol. Instead, he does it the way he knows best — with sly, almost sociopathic subterfuge. That lad, for want of a more diplomatic label, is a diehard doggie dacoit.

A salient example: I went into Nori’s, bought a bag of honey-dipped pineapple slices, and then went to Aldi for more stuff. Before I went into Aldi, I put the bag of pineapple slices on the dashboard, and when I came back, not only were the pineapples gone, but so was the bag. The only sign those slices had even existed were the tell-tale crumbs on Jesse’s face. Thereafter, if Jesse was in the car when I’d be shopping in two stores, before I went into the second store, I took the stuff from the first one and put it on the hood.

This is why everything edible in my house is under lock and key. Or at least it was, till that Fateful Friday, when I forgot to do it.

How sweet it isn’t

Planning ahead for the Brothers of the Bush’s struttin’ our stuff in the Winter Carnival parade, with its theme of Creepy Carnival I bought all the leftover Halloween candy in Dollar General. Yeah, sure, it’d be staler than a knock-knock joke by Carnival, but for all the ragamuffins who’d shove it in their gaping maws knew, it was better than Russell Stover’s finest.

So I came back from Dollar General with a huge paper bag jammed with big cellophane bags full of candy, which I put on the kitchen floor. Then, I realized I needed some groceries and, suffering an obvious synaptic shutdown, I headed out to town without putting the candy away. So it should come as no surprise to you (though it sure did to me) that when I returned, the living room rug told a story. It was that Jessie had ripped open one of the candy bags and scarfed all its contents. And for an encore, he’d eaten most of the cellophane too.

I didn’t yell at Jesse, didn’t say anything, didn’t even give him a dirty look. And why would I, since it was all my fault?

Instead, I got the vacuum, cleaned up the remnants (not that there were a lot of them), and then did what I never should have: I looked up on the internet about dogs eating bags of candy.

Apparently, the candy itself, while not recommended doggie fare by the AKC, isn’t the main problem. The problem is the wrappers, which can cause intestinal blockage, and which in turn can lead to either serious surgery, or if not caught in time, death.

“Sangfroid” is a French word that literally means “cold blood” — in other words keeping your cool under pressure. I learned that word in 10th grade in French class with Mme. Klein, B.A., M.A., M.O.T., and I understood exactly what it meant. Unfortunately, I’ve never been able to model it, and I sure didn’t after I’d read that on the internet. My blood pressure spiked, my heart pounded in my temples, I felt faint and sick to my stomach, and I couldn’t catch my breath.

All I could think was I’d just killed my dog — and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it.

It was Friday evening; the vet’s office was closed and it wouldn’t be open till Monday morn. There’s an emergency vet in Plattsburgh and another in Burlington, but before I tossed Jesse in the car and peeled off into the night, I decided to assess the situation as best I could.

I checked him out. He wasn’t shaking, drooling or shaking. His breathing wasn’t labored. In fact, he — as opposed to me — looked in fine fettle. Maybe he was having the sugar rush of his life, but if so, he was enjoying it immensely.

Finally, I told myself he seemed OK and I’d wait till the morning to see how he was doing.

The next day he seemed his old self — after a full night’s sleep, he devoured his breakfast and then wagged his way to the car for our morning ride and walk. We went for a long walk and everything was fine, except for one thing — he didn’t poop. Of course, I worried it could be due to a blockage, but I figured I’d wait to see.

And wait I did. And poop he didn’t. Not on Saturday afternoon, Saturday night, Sunday morning, noon or night.

–

Timing is everything

–

On Monday morning I called High Peaks Animal hospital and they got me an appointment forthwith.

Dr. Culverwell had the pleasure of giving Jesse the once-and-twice-over, then he had the boy X-rayed, after which he showed me the results.

“It looks like he has blockages,” he said, “if you’ll look here.”

He pointed at the X-ray. For all I knew he was showing me an aerial photo of boat traffic on the Yangtze River.

Cold sweat ran down my spine.

“But,” he continued, “I’m going to send the X-rays to a radiologist. They have better equipment and can give a more precise reading.”

“OK,” I said, thinking anything but.

“I’ll keep him here, put him on an IV so he re-hydrates, and I’ll give you a call when I get the radiologist gets back to me,” he said. “Should be an hour or two.”

I went home and sat in my chair, unable to read, eat, drink or think. Finally, a couple hours later, the phone rang and it was Dr. Culverwell.”

“Well,” he said, “I’ve got two pieces of great news.”

“Really?” I said, brightening. “What are they?”

“First, the radiologist said he has no blockages.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “And what’s the other.

“After you left, as soon as we took him in back, he had a big bowel movement,” he said.“So he’s good to go.”

I exhaled fully, for the first time in almost four days. Then I went and picked Jesse up and drove back.

While I was wiped out from this “adventure,” Jesse wasn’t at all the worse for wear. In fact, he seemed downright chipper, checking out the scenery with his usual mixture or curiosity and joy.

“Ya, know,” I said, “you really had me freaked out.”

Now a note of explanation: I’ve had dogs for a long time, so I know some things about them. And one of those things is dogs — especially my dogs — don’t understand complicated sentences. Or even simple full sentences. Yeah, my bunch know words like “supper,” “ride in the car,” “treat,” “no,” “sit,” and so on. But that’s it.

So why was I about to have a full one-way conversation with Jesse?

Simple: I was doing it for myself, probably to vent my very-recently-gone hysteria.

“Yeah,” I said, “I know it was my fault. Believe me, I don’t blame you. What the hell, I leave out candy, you’re gonna eat it. Even if it’s in a cellophane bag. Right?”

He just kept looking out the window. Of course.

And I kept rambling. Also of course.

“So I understand that part of this meshegas,” I said. “But there’s one thing that really bugs me. It’s a question I’d like to know the answer to. Wanna know what it is?”

If he did, he didn’t acknowledge it. Which didn’t stop me from babbling on.

“It’s just this …” I said.

Then I paused for impact, and went on.

“If you could take a long-overdue dump 10 minutes after you went in the vet’s office, why oh why couldn’t you have done it 10 minutes before?”