scale

Flo update: For it was the size of a pine cone, that bone she chomped in one go, so my fears weren't of the hysterick 19th century fretting kind entirely. Though she must have a 19th century cast iron stomach as she shows no apparent sign of discomfort. 'We're fairly confident she'll be fine' said the vet nurse, who then advised me to monitor her movements. (A bonus.) But is it possible for her to pass this? boynton thought, but had only said it was largeish - from a failure to properly articulate scale. Pine Cone did not sound standard enough, or specific enough to drop into clinical conversation over the phone.

To eliminate this "guesstimating" problem, it is best to pick a readily accessible (and socially acceptable) part of your body such as the length of a phalanx of your index finger or the width of your thumb

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Comments: scale

"It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God."

Is it a one hump pine cone size or two hump pine cone size?

We await the next up date. (©Roy and H.G.) We remain apprehensive watchers of the cast iron belly cone.
Posted by Sedgwick at January 27, 2004 08:41 AM

I think stomach acid helps. If they can get it into their throats, I don't think there is a problem from then on, assuming there is nothing sharp about the bones. Which is my fear with Coco the Wonderdog, who wolfs down crap she finds in the St Kilda Street...
Posted by David Tiley at January 27, 2004 10:54 AM

our apprehension and impulse to versification is gradually decreasing, but should any significant event come to pass before all fear is eliminated I shall keep my readership informed.

That old canine stomach acid must be quite lethal, David.
Some dogs (like one elderly labrador sook I know)
always have great trouble with the smallest of bones. Any but marrow bones were banned.
This bluey has enough of the dingo/pariah dog to
not suffer any perils of pampered domestication.
Posted by boynton at January 27, 2004 01:42 PM

I am glad. We all adore our pooches. Mine is panting like a train right now, her feet up on my leg, campaigning for her evening run.
Posted by David Tiley at January 27, 2004 11:50 PM