Stuck for a name, we had it when Uncle Harry christened the stray pup “Socrates,” given his proclivity to poison himself. Worse than a baby in a bathroom cabinet, right from the git-go he liked stuff he shouldn’t and revealed a fatal attraction for everything liquid. Paint, turpentine, whitewash, bleach . . . if left out, he’d find it and drink it. Little did I know then the career path his beverage choices would put me on.
The first and worst time was antifreeze. Uncle Harry was fiddling with the Buick in the backyard after church and “Soc,” as he came to be called, was stalking moths in the lettuce where I was hoeing like I’d promised. Somehow he sneaked behind our attention, dipped his head in a pail of 50-50 mix, and swallowed some before we knew it.
I heard the cursing first and my little sister’s crying second when Uncle Harry, on the dead-run, kicked the bucket, so to speak, and splattered the front of her white pinafore with green splotches of coolant big as lily pads. For his part, Soc hightailed it for the barn and Uncle Harry headed for the shed where he kept hydrogen peroxide for cuts and a bottle of vodka for visitors.
“Go catch him, Jack, and you button-up, Sissy. You’ll live but the dog might not.” He said the last sentence to himself, but she heard him and so did I. That made her bawl louder and me run faster.
Soc, of course, figured it was game-on and dodged and darted among the stalls and cow flop before I cornered him behind a stack of hay bales. I carried him out twisting and growling to Uncle Harry, who pried open his mouth, spooned in peroxide and waited for him to heave before ladling Smirnoff down his gullet.
I don’t know how he came up with this cure, but he was all business so I didn’t question it. I just remember hearing the spoon clicking against Soc’s teeth and Uncle Harry breathing hard and cussing himself until Aunt Helen joined us.
October Ruffs by Eldridge Hardie
“What happened?”
“It was my fault for not paying attention. Socrates, here, swallowed some anti-freeze.”
“Judas Priest,” she whispered. It was as close to a curse as she would come.
“Will he be okay, Uncle Harry?” Hearing the crack in my voice, my uncle tried to hide the worry in his.
“I don’t know. Maybe. An old country vet I used to know taught me this trick years ago— ‘hair of the dog’ he called it—and it stuck with me. Something in the alcohol does something to the coolant. We’ll have to keep him drunk for awhile.”
Imagining the worst and leaking tears like a punctured hose, I hugged my dog while Aunt Helen comforted me and Uncle Harry continued to spoon-feed him vodka. True to his nature, Soc kind of liked it at first until the taste torched his throat. Then he fought us tooth and nail every time he saw the bottle and spoon coming, making for a long day’s journey into night. I fell asleep but Uncle Harry stayed with it into the early morning hours when he said he’d done all he could do.
“Keep your fingers crossed,” he said wearily on his way to bed while Soc slept off his night on the town. Watching and worrying, helpless with ignorance, I had my first inkling that I wanted to be a veterinarian.
Throughout the afternoon, Soc awoke in fits, probably hung over, and then whimpered himself back to sleep. It took another day of uncharacteristic lethargy before he perked up, much to the relief of all of us, especially Uncle Harry, who blamed himself.
Somehow Soc survived, but he’d prove to be a slow study. So much so that my aunt and uncle had to park their cars in the garage so he wouldn’t lick the coolant that dripped from the radiator onto the gravel beneath.
