I recently posted a photo about Walter the Wonderdoodle and overdoses and Ziploc baggies and vomit. It seems I should clear the air.
No, Walter isn’t an addict. But he is an asshole.
The last few weeks have been fragmenting and stressful. We’ve had all kinds of work going on outside – wood rot, paint, gutters, trees. All the stuff you never dream of spending money on when you’re 8 and figure adulthood is going to be all Camaros and Pepsi.
So, it’s been loud. We’ve all been a little frayed. And Walter and Ruby have been sharing a delightful and antibiotic-resistant case of kennel cough. And my darling husband was out of town for work.
Picture it: One moment, I’m outside, talking to the tree guy. The next, I’m wandering around the interior of my home, begging Walter to show Mommy where the rest of the drugs are. He had counter surfed and eaten a brand-new bottle of Li’l Frankfurter’s pain meds. The bottle of liquid anti-inflammatory was missing. But a ruptured plastic bottle that had clearly been chewed open was all that was left of the pain meds.
The hell, Walter?
I finally found the liquid med, barely chewed open and mostly spilled all over a dog bed. Fine. And Li’l Frank weighs 60 pounds less than Walter, so it should be mostly fine, right? I googled info about the med and finally texted my SIL, sainted veterinarian that she is. She said to go ahead and induce vomiting.
I measured out the hydrogen peroxide carefully. Then, I sucked it up in my turkey baster and shoved it down Walter’s throat. We then proceeded to play outside, as SIL said that running around can help activate the hydrogen peroxide and get the vomit train moving.
Walter doesn’t understand how to play ball. Instead, he wanted to wrestle with me. Which … I am trying to make you vomit. I do not want to be pinned to the ground under you when you finally yarf all over. Also? Why is the concept of retrieving so difficult? You are part Labrador retriever. It’s in your name!
So, no vom. We did another turkey baster full of hydrogen peroxide. And we ran around a little more. And then? Yack City!
Hmm. Walter had eaten a punch of toilet paper, which is a favorite pastime. And the vomit also included … a Ziploc bag?
I held up the bag – yes, with my bare hand, because these damn dogs have beaten all prissiness out of me. I studied the bag. Walter came over to study the bag, all, “Well, will you look at that! Huh.” As if he hadn’t just blarfed it out of his upper GI tract.
He had eaten a Ziploc baggie.
This was the low point of my week. There hadn’t been a moment of quiet, our old house is falling down, our neighbors probably hate us and my husband had abandoned me. And now? Now, my idiot son was all, “Gee, I didn’t know Ziplocs aren’t digestible!”
And then I realized that Li’l Frank’s beloved vet techs always send home a baggie of treats because they believe his lies about never being fed at home. And Walter went in for the treats and gee, just happened upon these expensive prescriptions, too. Which I then had to refill. And drive across town to retrieve. In my free time.
But at least no one was hammering, sawing or actively vomiting in my car.
So, that’s the deal with the Ziploc baggie. Ziploc! I am willing to do sponsored content!