And by “Happy” I mean my poodle.
The one who projectile vomited exorcist style all over my couch yesterday morning.
My poor baby boy.
He was sick all weekend. It started on Friday night just as R.J and I were arguing over where we should go to dinner. Happy was standing in the corner and then all of a sudden–bam, covered my computer charger with kibble and bits…
R.J and I ended up staying home that night.
We layered our bathroom floor with puppy pads and sat with him on the tile until he fell asleep (of course as soon as we left he got up and started barking to let him come sleep in our bed.) To show his dissatisfaction with our decision he chose to puke on the rug and not any of the 8 pads I’d put down. Fair enough.
Sunday was better. He had prescription bland food. He kept it down.
Then came Monday morning. He’d slept fine. He’d eaten his breakfast without a problem. I had a busy morning. I had an interview with a project manager, and a slew of stories had come in for the rare blog. I was just settling into a few hours of editing when I heard the tell-tale gurgle of doom. I sprang up from the couch trying to find anything close to save my upholstery. That thing turned out to be one of those really soft blankets we keep on our couch.
And into the laundry machine it went…
I ended up taking him to the vet to get checked up on, and had to leave him there for the afternoon. (Something I hate doing but happens often since he gets dehydrated from his constant stomach issues)
Every time it happens R.J turns to me and says, “well, he’s definitely YOUR dog.”
The first six months I had Happy I was constantly…doing laundry. This dog is allergic to EVERYTHING it eats. And as a puppy, he was eating everything. I tried every food on the market–raw food, organic food, bland food, wet food, dry food—I finally found a brand he could eat. But he could only eat one flavor of it. God forbid they ever discontinue this flavor–he’s going to starve.
So, to say that Happy and I have a lot of similarities is understating it, I guess.
It makes me wonder if the mini-heart attack I get whenever I’m side-glancing him on our way to the vet is the same one my mother must have when she’s driving me to the emergency room.
I’m not saying my dog is my kid.
But my dog is my kid.