Tuesday, October 17, 2006

MY DOG AND HIS BARF


By the way, meet Brother Todd. Nothing to do with the story.

So, the other evening, I was busy wrapping up biz up at work and I get a call from my wife that says, "Baby, I really need you to come home now. Jax got into a bag of chocolate chips and there's puke and ish everywhere."

Aight.

So begins my evening.

Somewhat prepared for the horror that awaited me at home, I drove fast but cautiously. No reason to make a big problem bigger. I arrive at the house, swing open the door to the sunroom and, sure enough, there's more puke than I've ever seen come from a dog. And, yes, one horse-sized turd to the right of my right foot. Just to the right.

Okay, think quick. Like Boy Scouts, get a plan, execute. Gotta be quick, gotta be quick, gotta be quick.

My wife asks if we should take him somewhere. I'm thinking, "Yeah, the backyard." She would be referring to some sort of medical treatment facility. Absolutely. For those who do not know, chocolate contains several toxins that are fatally harmful to dogs if ingested in, well, we'll put it this way, if ingested in the amounts that Jax ingested on Monday.

The damage?

1 Ziploc bag of white chocolate chips, 1 Ziploc bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips, and 1 Ziploc bag of toffee chips

Barf everwhere. Everywhere. And when I find Jax, he's as you would expect--dehydrated as a muddah, whining for fluids. And, better yet, he's running a mile a minute on account of the incredible portions of caffeine and stimulants flowing through his bloodstream. In fact, I'm convinced he was having hallucinations.

My lovely wife's on the phone trying to track down an open shop so we could have his stomach pumped, but in the continued neglect of the canine population in the Yellow, no surprise, everywhere we were calling works under the assumption that pets only get sick during normal business hours.

Finally, we reach someone about thirty minutes down the road who offered up the following suggestion: give him a tablespoon of hydrogen peroxide to enduce vomiting once every five minutes until he vomits clear, then an hour later administer a tablespoon of Pepto and then plenty of fluids.

Wow, just another quiet evening at home.

My lovely wife and I go outside and proceed pouring tablespoon number one of hydrogen peroxide down his gully. He walks around the backyard languidly. Nothing. I start chasing him around the backyard to jostle his belly a little. It always worked for me as a kid. Of course, it wasn't hydrogen peroxide I was drinking. C'mon folks, straight up 40 ounces of St. Ides. You know the routine.

So moments later, a second tablespoon down the hatch. This had to do the trick.

Nothing.

More wandering until I notice the "I'm about to projectile vomit" face that dogs do. It kinda looks like a smile. Like, "Hey, I just tooted a little." He works his way into the flower bed (hey, I'm moving outta here on Friday, I don't care) and starts a nervous pacing back and forth. Then, I notice him begin digging a small hole in the ground. "Okay, I have no clue what this is," I said to my lovely wife.

Suddenly, I notice his back arch, his sides begin to puff rapidly and then--boom goes the dynamite--out comes enough belly volume to fill a Wal-Mart bag (let's face it, that's what their product is, really). I run over to check out his product and, wonder of wonders, this dude just puked up literally everything in his body. Yet he has yet to successfully puke clear. One more round.

And, again, please note that this dog is so gangsta that he buries his puke. Dude, you've seen Casino, when you a gangsta like Jax, you bury your problems in a shallow grave in the desert. Or the flower bed as the case may be.

This one took about thirty minutes or so for the second helping to come and, thank God, it was clear. So, now it was time to move onto Pepto. Jax, at this point, is quite leary of us hovering over him so he becomes panicked. I wrestle him up, pry his mouth open and my lovely wife pours a tablespoon down his gully of the Pepto. What happened next, I would have never guessed. Immediately, the dude just spits it up. And I'm not talking like "Oh, it just didn't go down the hatch," no, I'm talking, "If they try and put that pink crap down your throat, just give 'em what they deserve." There was a pink Pepto explosion. It was everywhere. All over me, my wife, the floor, the rug. Disaster.

Anyhow, Jax is recovering still. He's going to be fine, methinks, as we found an exit for all that chocolate, although, things always move faster through the out door. So, here's to me for not properly storing all those freaking goodies so that my dog couldn't access them while I was away at work and here's to Jax for puking into a hole in the ground. Atta boy!

Here's Jax expressing his love for chocolate. That cake is another problem altogether. But make no mistake, it was heavenly.

3 comments:

TX said...

Great story. That dog is as gangsta as they come. However, I would disagree and hold that the mug at the top of the post was likened to the face that you or the lovely wife made upon observing the gastrointestinal carnage in your sunroom. Good to have Jax among the land of the living.

sarahsmile3 said...

Jax is straight up lusting about that cake.

Cousin Carrie said...

I laughed so hard that i had to cover my mouth to contain myself to spare embarasement from my fellow-cubicle-quiet-boring-office-setting. Thanks for the graphics - you are so great at descriptions....