Now, I'm not going to put any warnings, labels, cascades of information that indicate something is off, about the last article I wrote. No, there's no disclaimers involved; every sentence, while perhaps exaggerated for the sake of story, was completely true. Down to the bloody stains on the walls. Now, I myself haven't had the pleasure of identifying mysterious stains on the wall, but rest assured (or unassured) they're still there.
And that's not the worst part.
The worst part is that there's even more stories of violent, blatant animal abuse that run through this family. Like a Grimm's fairy tales of violent ends to animals that comes pro-bono to knowing the Paloma's. Everyone could be considered guilty. My aunt left a cat in the freezer for so long it's tail fell off. My sister gets two hermit-crabs from the Mall of America and decides two weeks later to release them into the wilds of suburban Minnesota. My grandparents had a cat that fell from a two story window (and lived).
It's not to say who's at fault here, the giver of pets or the give-ee. But know that this next story was undoubtedly, indefatigably caused by the greed of the pig-pug himself. This is no one's fault but Oscar's, and this is the chicken nugget story.
Oscar was a special breed of stupid. He was just one of those animals who was considered small enough to store food for the winter, preferably immediately into his cheeks or stomach. He was the kind of dog that ate an entire cooked hamburger, threw it up along with some excess, and continued to eat it again. Oscar was, to say the least, resourceful when it came to food.
However, this particular nugget of chicken meat with deep-fried batter would test his very limits as a pug. We brought home McDonald's, he had dinner but could use a treat, and we peered into his innocent lil' eyes and said, "why not?" The nugget was gone in nano-seconds, but the pain was not. The dog walks away as if everything is fine, but it clearly isn't when he springs onto his hind paws and lands with a wheezing thud on his back.
It was the most bizarre thing my family had seen from the pooch. Mom of course gets up and begins to panic, seeing as Oscar is not breathing at the moment, and he needs every brain cell he can get. My sister is crying, and while I do have a criminal record, it's more of a history with the police rather than a history of harm to animals. I was called upon to save the day.
Picturesque my mom crying as she doesn't know what to do, my sister staring in deep horror at the lifeless pug before her, and myself as a 12-year-old with a vague idea of the Heimlich, pretty much punching my dog's body, shouting, "LIVE, GOD DAMNIT! LIVE!!"
Needless to say, the obstructing object was removed, and Oscar lived a happy 11-year life until death came for him with a quarter-pounder and chocolate ice cream.
