First Hound got into some chocolate. Ok, this happens to dogs all the time, it’s not baking chocolate, and I know perfectly well that it is not INSTADEATH. Online calculators by weight are like “Yeah, that’s nothin’.” This dog has eaten rotten toads, hardback books, cigarettes…she is a canine garbage disposal. She has also never been sick a day in her life.
Then she starts eating grass. Except Hound does not know what grass is, so she is just in the garden tearing off Random Leaves. I end up chasing her around going “That’s an elm! That’s sticky germander! That’s a rare Himalayan salvia! What are you DOING?!”
Obviously this happens at one AM. Because of course it does.
Then finally she makes a noise like a murloc having an orgasm and all the plants come back up.
Fine, I think. That’s that. Nature takes its course.
Which just proves that I am, in fact, staggeringly naive. The next morning, Hound is breathing shallowly and lethargic. We drive her to the vet school ER an hour away. We explain about the plants and the chocolate and the murloc noises to a nice young vet with a manbun who looks about fifteen years old. They take Hound back, and discover Hound is having severe arrhythmia. Which is a chocolate toxicity symptom. Except we all agree that the quantity she got hold of absolute should not have done that, but hey, maybe she has developed an unexpected sensitivity. They keep her overnight. I leave a large deposit on my credit card. We drive an hour home.
The next day I come pick her up. A nice vet who actually looks old enough to drink gives me a list of symptoms to watch out for, including extreme lethargy. They give me back some of the deposit. Hound comes home.
The next morning, she is extremely lethargic and furthermore, Not Eating.
In a hound, loss of appetite generally happens several hours after all clinical signs of life are extinguished. I drive her an hour to the ER. A nice vet who appears twelve says her heart is working perfectly fine, and suggests pancreatitis. Let’s do an ultrasound. Err…in a few hours, they’re kind of slammed. I go to a coffee shop and attempt to work.
The ultrasound fails because they can’t see around Hound’s stomach, which is enormously swollen. They do an X-ray. There is something weird in there. Foreign body, it looks like. Not blocking anything, just sitting there. “Foamy mass” is the term being used. It has air bubbles. Chocolate wrapper? Weird mass of leaves? (Oh god, was she eating frog eggs out of the pond again?) The vet decides to induce vomiting to get the prize out of this particular canine Kinder Egg. I sit in the waiting room and attempt to work.
An hour and a half later, the vet comes out and says, in awestruck tones, that they have given Hound two doses of their strongest emetic and she will not vomit. “This dog has an iron stomach!” she says. I explain about the toad and the cigarettes. She asks if they were at the same time. (They were not.) Hound stays overnight. I leave a second, larger deposit on my credit card. I drive an hour home.
The next day, the vet calls me, says “So I wanted to give you an update—oh crap! STAT TRIAGE! I’ll call you back!” and hangs up. Some hours later, she calls me back. No, the foamy thing is still there. Stomach is less swollen, though. They’re still hoping she passes it. By the way, did I know Hound has erhlichiosis? I did not, but at this point, nothing surprises me. Hound stays overnight again.
The next day, Hound is transferred to Internal Medicine. Her protein levels are weird, but she is not retaining fluid. (Yay?) If the weird foamy mass is not gone, they will have to perform surgery tomorrow. I leave a third, even larger deposit over the phone. Hound stays overnight again.
The next day, a new vet, of indeterminate age, but with a strong desire to make sure that I understand every single aspect of every single test begins explaining to me about blood protein levels and that they need to do a targeted ultrasound to make sure she doesn’t have a GI bleed. I am so deep in the hole at this point that I’m just like “Yeah, whatever, do it.” Hound stays overnight again.
He calls the next day to say that she has no bleed and no pancreatitis. What about the foamy mass?
The…the one that was…I saw the X-rays…?
Well, there’s nothing there now. Maybe she passed whatever it was. No blockages anywhere. They went over her innards with a fine toothed comb. She’s eating like a horse, incidentally. Would I like to take her home tomorrow?
I drive an hour. I get Hound. The vet’s working theory is an erhlichiosis flare-up brought on by chocolate shock. She gets antibiotics, anti-nausea meds, and special bland food in case her appetite decreases. I receive a tiny amount back on my deposit. We drive an hour home.
Hound, cognizant of her delicate digestive state, immediately attempts to break into the litterbox and eat cat poop. I deliver a lengthy lecture on the evils of dumpster diving. Hound gazes at me with great earnestness, then belches gently in my face. Learning happens to other people, not Hound.
The face of a canine garbage disposal who cost me more than my first car
