Oh, Deuce.
This morning I woke up to the Aggie holding an empty container that used to house Sonny the Pug's hip dysplasia medication. Yesterday there were about 20 medicated treats in the canister. This morning there were none.
Uh, oh.
Someone had infiltrated the kitchen pantry and feasted on the ass-flavored, medicated treats. At first we assumed it was Ripken, as he has a history of stealing things off the cabinets. If he'll pull an entire flank steak or ham off the stove, then what's stopping him from rummaging through the pantry? Besides, he just looked guilty.
"That dog knows something," I said to the Aggie, as I got dressed for work this morning.
"Yeah," the Aggie replied, staring down at the big sissy, Ripken. "I don't know why I'm bothering, but I'm going to feed the dogs."
Three minutes later…
"Uh, babe. I don't think Ripken was the culprit this time," the Aggie said.
"Oh?"
"No, he is hungry and eating his breakfast, but Deuce isn't," he said.
This is very suspicious behavior, as Deuce is a tad aggressive over food and likes to dominate Ripken while they eat.
"Deuce won't come near his food. I think he ate the pug's medicine," the Aggie explained.
Just then I looked down and noticed the Silky sitting between my feet. He looked okay, I thought. He wasn't foaming at the mouth or pooping blood so I reached down and picked him up for a closer inspection.
Uh, oh.
It was the belly. It looked like he'd swallowed a softball or a grapefruit. Immediately I showed the Aggie. I won't print his X-rated response.
While I continued to get ready for work, the Aggie monitored Deuce and read up on the medicated treats that he'd ate. The medication did not seem to be too scary. In the Aggies words: I read the bin when I found it this morning and saw that it did not say, "IF CONSUMED IN MASS QUANTITIES BY YOUR IDIOT SILKY TERRIER, THIS MEDICINE IS FATAL."
Other than being a little calmer than usual and having a potbelly, we couldn't tell that anything was wrong with Deuce. Since it’s the holiday season and Deuce already has a surgery scheduled for this month (a de-nutting), we decided to take the wait-and-see approach. Which isn't our style at all. Our animals are our children, so when they get sick we go to the vet.
This philosophy has resulted in Sonny the Pug personally financing our veterinarian's lease on his new red BMW. Rather than fund the veterinarian's down payment on his vacation home, the Aggie took me to work and promised to monitor Deuce closely. When he returned, less than an hour later, "nature" had apparently taken its course.
Deuce had purged his system of the medication by yacking in every conceiveable place a 12-pound terrier can go, including but not limited to: our bed, under the bed, the carpet, the couch, the ottoman, himself, the pug, the fire place, the Nordak Trak, in the Aggie's shoes and the kitchen sink... Okay, not the kitchen sink, but you get the idea. The little bastard puked everywhere he possibly could.
"How much vomit could he possibly hold?" the Aggie asked when he called to report on Deuce's condition. "Is he like a cow? Does he have three stomachs? Its not possible to puke this much."
"It can't be that much…" I began.
"No! You're not here to see it. It's… epic," the Aggie said, as he continued to mop up the stomach contents of our Silky. "He only weighs 12 pounds? How is it possible to throw up more than your body weight?"
"I… uh… I don't know."
"Okay, well, I just wanted to let you know he's ok now. Running around and playing," the Aggie said. "I guess his hips feel GREAT. He's in perpetual motion, running all over the place."
Think about that for a second, Internet.
The Silky has vomited his own body weight, but has never felt like running so much in his whole life. Paints a very horrific picture doesn't it? He was running and puking at the same time, thus the house covered in vomit.
Next time? We are so taking him to the vet.
This morning I woke up to the Aggie holding an empty container that used to house Sonny the Pug's hip dysplasia medication. Yesterday there were about 20 medicated treats in the canister. This morning there were none.
Uh, oh.
Someone had infiltrated the kitchen pantry and feasted on the ass-flavored, medicated treats. At first we assumed it was Ripken, as he has a history of stealing things off the cabinets. If he'll pull an entire flank steak or ham off the stove, then what's stopping him from rummaging through the pantry? Besides, he just looked guilty.
"That dog knows something," I said to the Aggie, as I got dressed for work this morning.
"Yeah," the Aggie replied, staring down at the big sissy, Ripken. "I don't know why I'm bothering, but I'm going to feed the dogs."
Three minutes later…
"Uh, babe. I don't think Ripken was the culprit this time," the Aggie said.
"Oh?"
"No, he is hungry and eating his breakfast, but Deuce isn't," he said.
This is very suspicious behavior, as Deuce is a tad aggressive over food and likes to dominate Ripken while they eat.
"Deuce won't come near his food. I think he ate the pug's medicine," the Aggie explained.
Just then I looked down and noticed the Silky sitting between my feet. He looked okay, I thought. He wasn't foaming at the mouth or pooping blood so I reached down and picked him up for a closer inspection.
Uh, oh.
It was the belly. It looked like he'd swallowed a softball or a grapefruit. Immediately I showed the Aggie. I won't print his X-rated response.
While I continued to get ready for work, the Aggie monitored Deuce and read up on the medicated treats that he'd ate. The medication did not seem to be too scary. In the Aggies words: I read the bin when I found it this morning and saw that it did not say, "IF CONSUMED IN MASS QUANTITIES BY YOUR IDIOT SILKY TERRIER, THIS MEDICINE IS FATAL."
Other than being a little calmer than usual and having a potbelly, we couldn't tell that anything was wrong with Deuce. Since it’s the holiday season and Deuce already has a surgery scheduled for this month (a de-nutting), we decided to take the wait-and-see approach. Which isn't our style at all. Our animals are our children, so when they get sick we go to the vet.
This philosophy has resulted in Sonny the Pug personally financing our veterinarian's lease on his new red BMW. Rather than fund the veterinarian's down payment on his vacation home, the Aggie took me to work and promised to monitor Deuce closely. When he returned, less than an hour later, "nature" had apparently taken its course.
Deuce had purged his system of the medication by yacking in every conceiveable place a 12-pound terrier can go, including but not limited to: our bed, under the bed, the carpet, the couch, the ottoman, himself, the pug, the fire place, the Nordak Trak, in the Aggie's shoes and the kitchen sink... Okay, not the kitchen sink, but you get the idea. The little bastard puked everywhere he possibly could.
"How much vomit could he possibly hold?" the Aggie asked when he called to report on Deuce's condition. "Is he like a cow? Does he have three stomachs? Its not possible to puke this much."
"It can't be that much…" I began.
"No! You're not here to see it. It's… epic," the Aggie said, as he continued to mop up the stomach contents of our Silky. "He only weighs 12 pounds? How is it possible to throw up more than your body weight?"
"I… uh… I don't know."
"Okay, well, I just wanted to let you know he's ok now. Running around and playing," the Aggie said. "I guess his hips feel GREAT. He's in perpetual motion, running all over the place."
Think about that for a second, Internet.
The Silky has vomited his own body weight, but has never felt like running so much in his whole life. Paints a very horrific picture doesn't it? He was running and puking at the same time, thus the house covered in vomit.
Next time? We are so taking him to the vet.
1 comments:
Say What? A surgury???
Have we really come all this way for nothing?
It's ok- I know you just can't stand it anymore!
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