There’s no convincing my dachshund not to eat a rock. If the definition of eating is swallowing, technically, she doesn’t eat rocks. She masticates them. I blame the appetite on her intelligence. As in, it’s found wanting. Hazel Henry—dog in question—discovers a rock and masticates it like it is surely a tennis ball concealing a miniature cat. The rock will weigh half her body weight and still she will clamp it in her jaws, slobber muddy foam, and groan as she maneuvers the potential meal of ball-cat-rock. If you judge what motivates her through life, Hazel’s stomach is five times bigger and more powerful than her brain. It is not fun taking Hazel Henry on hikes past stony stream beds. She quivers at the buffet. She salivates. Nothing dissuades her from dragging a choice rock morsel on the duration of the hike. What is harder—the rock or the dachshund’s resolve? In the game of rock-dachshund-scissors, dachshund wins every time. I grind rocks, too, of different sorts. Rocks which I can’t put down, no matter how much my brain tries to argue that the criticisms don’t matter, the threats won’t materialize, the human doesn’t despise me, or the beautiful exterior is rotten on the interior. My appetite for worry is five times the size of my brain, and therefore I know the taste of rock. I know aching neck muscles from dragging my mouthful miles down the trail. There is no convincing me not to eat a rock.
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