Last night involved a late night emergency trip to the Vet. Why, you ask? Because our dog ate my underwear.
I’m standing in the kitchen, making a late night batch of salad. I like salads. Whiskey, who is expending the last of the days energy by running laps in our apartment, likes shoes and dirty clothes. Perhaps other dog owners can relate to finding the hamper looted and a happy dog with a bra on its head. I wouldn’t know, Whiskey is my first adventure in dog-owner land.
Thai, who is reading on the couch, likes doing just that. What he doesn’t like is seeing Whiskey grab our [insert dirty worn item here] and running away with it like it’s a grand prize. We generally discourage such behavior, so when Whiskey grabs a pair of black lacy thongs from the laundry pile, he gets up to reclaim them. He fails. Whiskey, sensing the risk of loosing his treasure, promptly disappears under the couch and proceeds to swallow my underwear – seemingly in an attempt to keep them “safe”.
Oh boy. While not a lot of fabric, those thongs are still not meant for puppy tummies. As the millennials we are, within seconds we have googled “How to make a dog throw up” and “Dog ate underwear”. Both queries return plenty of advice. While you apparently can make a dog throw up by feeding him Hydrogen Peroxide, we don’t want risking him choking on lace. Thus, we pack ourselves in the car (23:30 on a Sunday night) and head to the 24 Hour Emergency Animal Care Clinic. Whiskey is happily wagging his tail, blissfully unaware of what is coming.
Whatever concoction the Vet uses to make him throw up, he does not like it. We hear him whine miserably as we sit in the waiting room, praying that the underwear will make it’s way back up. If not, the Vet has told us, we’re facing a Very Expensive Surgery. We fiddle nervously, talking about how in the future we are going to put all our stuff behind heavy locks. The receptionist makes a “helpful” comment on how dogs eat stuff when they are bored, and that they need toys. We nod, silently counting at least 5 toys our puppy must have passed on his way to the laundry.
Eventually the Vet emerges, proudly carrying my underwear and asking if they look familiar. Oh sweet relief. No surgery. A healthy – albeit still nauseous – pup. Up until this point, I don’t think I had realized how much he has come to mean to us.
Whiskey, you little crazy ball of fluff, we love you and please stick to your kibble.