De Vos: ‘Breaking Bad’ Basset |

De Vos: ‘Breaking Bad’ Basset

Jon de Vos
Friday Report
Jon DeVos

Man! While I was binge-watching “Breaking Bad” last month I had no idea the dogs were paying such close attention. Now, I think they’re downstairs cooking meth while we’re upstairs asleep. I blame myself. As Freeta Goodhome, our rescued basset has grown older; she’s become very sensitive to thunder. She paces, trembling, inconsolable, moaning in terror and peeing like an Italian fountain. She now gets taped securely into adult diapers the instant a cloud appears on the horizon.

Our new rescue mutt, Surely, (as in: surely, that’s not my dog, which is the first thing we said when she popped out of the transit crate) is one tough cookie. Growing up under a Home Depot dumpster in Gallup, New Mexico, she proved her gang credentials by biting three people the first week we had her. Bad to the bone (where we had to dig out some buckshot), I’m certain she’s an eager and fitting cohort in what seems to be their drug operation. Freeta’s the brains and Surely’s the muscle.

Freeta’s hysteric reaction to a bolt of lightning that comes anywhere closer than Jackson County led us to believe she might actually tremble herself to pieces. So we sought the advice of our veterinarian and decided to try Prozac to see if it might calm her some. The experiment had mixed results. She still trembled and quaked at the sound of thunder, but she somehow seemed happier about it. We continued to change diapers and get carpet bids, all the time wondering if the Prozac should’ve been for us.

Because I was unaware of the awful effects the TV program was having on the dogs, there we sat; the three of us lounging on the couch in the evenings watching endless episodes of “Breaking Bad”. What follows is a cautionary tale of the dangers of gateway drugs.

A couple of nights ago I heard a noise downstairs, so I armed myself with our Sunbeam Iron and crept downstairs. Both dogs were aproned and busy with boiling beakers, retort piping, flasks and one large, bubbling cauldron. The big garage fan was perched on the sink blowing the smoke out to the neighbors. Both mutts wore respirators. I peeked through the bannisters in utter astonishment. Slowly I inched back upstairs and, not knowing what else to do, I climbed back in bed.

My wife, when it comes to sleeping, is a true professional, nonetheless I managed to wake her. She opened one eye, “Why are you holding that iron?”

“I heard a noise downstairs. In case it was a burglar, I could claim I’m just the butler, but it was only the dogs and they’re downstairs cooking what looks like meth.” I went on for a bit, but by this time my wife had lost interest and flopped back on her pillow with a content little smile.

“Hey, did you hear me?” I said, “The dogs are downstairs cooking meth!”

“Tell them to clean the stove afterwards,” she muttered sleepily. After a few minutes her light came back on, she rolled over, glared at me and said, “Say, you don’t think it could have been a dream, do you? I mean after all, respirators?”

But it seemed so real.

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