Wednesday, July 25, 2012

The Little Dog

I have a little dog.  I think I've made that clear in a few previous posts.

An adorable little dog.
A stupid little dog.

Who is trying REALLY hard.

We arrived in Ithaca a day earlier than necessary for a job so I could acclimate him.  Left him alone a couple of times.   Brought his crate, his fav bed, fav food, fav treats and ALL his toys.

He seemed okay.

I came home for lunch the first day of work to find him pushing through the window screen to greet me by LEAPING into my arms, whacked out of his mind.

Whose dog is this?

I enter my apartment with the wriggling mass of dogmanity to find crumbs all over the floor.  Seems the little dog who NEVER climbs on furniture in the great city of NY found it appropriate here and discovered a brownie I'd missed in my welcome basket sitting on the kitchen table.

Quick:  google brownie.  Could be okay.  It's definitely not dark chocolate, it wasn't a FULL ON chocolate brownie.  He hadn't eaten ALL of it.

Maybe it's just a sugar high.

Walked him.  Walked him far.  Went to rehearsal and had company management check on him.  Fine and happy.  A ginormous chocolate poop later, and he was pawsome once more.

I came home for lunch the second day of work to find him sampling half the contents of the refrigerator.  Seems the seal on the refrigerator door was faulty.  Who knew?

The stupid little dog...

The cheddar cheese wasn't too disturbing other than the sheer quantity. 

In fact it was impressive.

What WAS disturbing were these...


The dreaded grapes.

For some dogs, not all, the only thing more deadly is antifreeze.  ANTIFREEZE.  You don't know if your dog is SOME dog until he is in acute renal failure.  Of those who go into acute renal failure, only 40% survive.  Of the 40% who survive, only 40% become their doggy selves again.  That was a 16% chance Baxie would ever be Baxie again.

Holy crapdoodles.

I run around town trying to find hydrogen peroxide to make him throw up.  That seemingly takes hours since I don't know the town, there are 1,001 one way streets, I go to the rehearsal hall to see if they have it, they don't so they give me directions to a CVS that I burst into, dog in tow, Shirley MacLaine-ing, "Don't give me any shit.  My dog is sick."

And then, lo and behold, it doesn't act as an emetic on him.  He kinda digs it. 

Holy crapdoodles.

Finally too many hours later we are at the vet, under the recommendation of brilliant company management and the company of the soul woman herself (I really try not to use proper names here.).  They take Baxie away.  They bring him back.  I think he's home free and they explain just how bad this could be. How late I am.  How long it will take.

Three days.  Three days of throw up, charcoal to clean out his system and intravenous fluids every few hours to give him a chance.

Holy crapdoodles.

The little dog and I haven't been separated for more than 16 consecutive hours.  In five months.  And that was so I could do a show and have uninterrupted adult relations.  And he was with someone he loved.  Not strangers.

Baxter took it like a champ, although I did hear his requisite WTF screaming as I put a down payment on what ended up being a two paycheck bill (so much better than it could have been). 

My WTF screaming didn't happen 'til I got home.  Implosion.  Followed by a bolshoya tokan vodka.  Followed by wandering around wondering why my fuzz face friend wasn't at my heels.

Little known fact:  I got the stupid little dog to replace my mother.  'Struth.  (But he doesn't criticize my hair, which is a good thing.)  I got the stupid little dog because we were both orphans and I thought we could raise one another. (I realized within a day someone had to captain the ship and it better be me.)

I got the stupid little dog so I wouldn't MISS so desperately.

Holy crapdoodles, that backfired, didn't it?

72 hours couldn't move fast enough.  I don't think the vodka, Peanut M&M diet helped much.

Weeks later, he's healthy and happy, if exhibiting a little more separation anxiety than when we left home.  He's friendlier with other dogs and people and kids.  He plays ball and we chase rabbits and squirrels, chipmunks and deer. We went kayaking the other day.

Every once in a while I still find charcoal in his beard.  

I have a new refrigerator door.

I no longer eat grapes.

We're both trying REALLY hard.


Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Coming Soon to a Blog Near You

A post. An actual post.  I promise a REAL post.

The NaNa Mother's Day story was a whopper and took a lot out of me.  And I was also stupidly proud of it and felt it was some of the best writing I've ever done.  

So I had to let it sit.

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