When I was seventeen, I almost killed the dog. I really did.
I know I mentioned this the other day, but I feel like I left a few things unsaid and don’t want anyone to think I was some sort of teenage dog killer or something. What happened that day could have happened to anyone, anywhere, and although Derby is no longer with us today, I’m happy to announce that he died at a very old age from natural causes about three years ago.
He was a good dog with excellent taste for Hershey’s syrup, dark chocolate truffles and challah bread dough, and I have to think that he is enjoying all of these things to the highest power in doggie heaven right now. It’s honestly a miracle he lived as long as he did!
So, here’s the story—start to finish. Read at your own risk then go bake some naan. Just take my advice and keep it far, far away from family pets…
It was a Saturday and like any normal seventeen year old girl, I was busy baking bread from scratch. This was about the time in my life when I was convinced that I was Laura Ingalls Wilder, and often times channeled her spirit by baking homemade bread and washing my clothes by hand. I was skinny, awkward and wore thick glasses. I had yet to discover how to be social (wait…I still haven’t really discovered that yet…Help?), and spent the majority of my time reading old cookbooks and concocting creative baked goods in the kitchen.
I had found this recipe for a beautiful braided Challah loaf in one of my mom’s old cookbooks and decided to give it a go. I carefully mixed and kneaded the dough by hand (Laura never would have used a Kitchen Aid!) and then set my lovely creation on the washing machine to rise.
Then, I went with my mom to the bookstore. When we got back an hour later, the dough was gone.
Of course I freaked out completely and ran screaming upstairs, convinced my little brother had played a trick on me. Sort of like the time he gave me water from the dog’s bowl to drink or put gum in my hair.
But then I heard a noise. A sort of low, retching coming from the other room….
“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!” I shrieked as strings of my Challah bread hung amongst slobber and foam from Derby’s mouth.
“Oh.My.God. Jennifer, get Derby and put him outside! Fast!” Mom was always the cool, calm and collected one in situations such as these.
Over the next hour, we watched as poor Derby’s stomach grew bigger and bigger and bigger as the Challah continued to rise inside of him (gross right?! I never promised you a pretty story!). We all watched him in horror and I stroked his big, floppy beagle ears, remembering all the good times and convinced that this was the end.
Finally, when it was clear that he was not going to get all of the dough out of his system on his own, mom wrapped him up gently in a blanket and carried him to the car where we proceeded to drive seventy on the shoulder to the nearest vet. I was in the front seat sobbing that I had killed the family dog and my brother was in the back seat dissecting regurgitated Challah dough. Can you picture it?
Two hours and a stomach pump later, we were home. Derby ran inside the house, straight to his food bowl and licked it clean. Then he lived happily ever after.