. . . or gratitude, or something.
Donna called me at work today, opening the conversation with “I did a dumb thing.” Whenever I say that, what I really mean is that I’ve done something urecoverably disastrous. My heart plunged.
Donna’s dumb thing was to place a small bowl of Hershey’s Kisses on the coffee table and turn her back for a minute. By the time she turned back around, Schatzi had gobbled down half the bowl, foil and all.
We haven’t had a lot of experience with dogs, but everyone tells us chocolate is toxic to them. So before calling me, Donna scooped up Schatzi and drove her to the vet’s. The vet purged our dog, administered a charcoal-based oral medication to coat her stomach and intestinal lining, then watched her for a couple of hours. The vet said Schatzi would be somewhat subdued tonight. We have to feed her a bland mixture of rice and chicken tonight and tomorrow, then return her to her regular diet.
As I write, Schatzi’s been home for three hours. She’s anything but subdued. In fact, she’s her normal self: bounding, leaping, and running around, wagging not just her tail but everything aft of her rib cage, bedeviling the cat, hiding toys under furniture for later retrieval.
She comes within inches of death, is saved only by Donna’s quick action and the vet’s powerful emetics, and all she has to say about it is Hi-glad-to-see-ya-where’s-my-dinner-ooh-there’s-my-favorite-squeaky-toy!
And here I am with a head cold, acting like I’m about to shuffle off this mortal coil. I wish I could be more like my dog. I wish we all could be more like my dog!