I know this can’t be consistently (if ever) interesting…but once again, my dog ate himself sick on trash, and I can’t stop myself from telling you about it. He’s like a guppy: he’ll eat until he explodes.
“Why does this keep happening?” you’re probably thinking. He’s relentless and he has no shame, that’s why. He’s an unstoppable force of nature. I goof once in a while. Whatever. Don’t be hating.
“Didn’t you install a baby gate?” I did, but someone staying with me ripped it out of the wall (by accident). I didn’t witness the incident and kind of forgot about it as the gate itself is still attached on the other side…but Dozer, however, was on the ball in this case.
Yesterday I left for a few hours to see the new Batman movie. I had an instinct. I saw it coming. In preparation, I moved everything off the front counters that could vaguely be considered edible: his poultry toothpaste, a container of Tums, a flower in a vase, a potted aloe, half a chocolate bar, and a bag of some unexpectedly yucky chips that are kind of like rice cakes but have a horrible fakey artificial jalapeno taste that’s really unbearable.
Ironically, all that made it through unscathed, because what Dozer decided to do instead was
a) breach the gate where it was no longer connected to the wall
b) eat a bag of trash consisting of mostly crab shells, papaya skins, coffee grounds paper towels (boy loves him a dirty napkin or paper towel used to drain bacon) and eggshells.
c) steal a highly fermented bag of Amish friendship bread starter (so raw, yeasty dough basically) and consume that ON THE CARPETS
d) God knows what else because I don’t have a motion camera. ***ahem***
The net effect was a dog so bloated I honestly thought he might blow. Well, he did actually, but that wasn’t for another six hours.
Seriously though, his stomach was rock hard and he looked like he’d gained 15 pounds.
Something about eating raw dough and crab shells makes a guy thirsty, because he also drank three bowls of water (easily a gallon and a half) and part of what he could find in the toilet bowl (water, but yuck water) and the cat’s water. Then he laid by his dishes and – pausing occasionally to cry softly – panted for a few hours.
He’s got health insurance – you don’t live with this animal for nearly seven years and not pay the $360 annual “just in case”: it’s an investment, not a gamble – but experience (an entire 12 oz. package of chocolate covered espresso beans, anyone?) has taught me he’d survive. I gave him a couple of the Tums – the internets implied he’d survive them, as well – and braced for the inevitable middle of the night wake up call.
It was spectacular – two gallons of water has to go somewhere – but at least it was outside.
And…true to his carrion-eating wolf ancestors…he’s as good as new, with a spring in his step again this morning.
I am vaguely hopeful he’ll put two and two together and think twice before raping and pillaging the kitchen again any time soon, but that dream is probably best filed under “hope over experience.”
Time will tell…