Dogs are really, really disgusting.
I need you to really understand this before you read any further. Dogs are disgusting. This is my disclaimer for this post. You have been warned.
The other night I was knitting in the basement when I heard “CRASH! CRASH! BANG!” Crashes and bangs are usually the result of the cats. If you invite nocturnal predators to live in your home you have to be okay with things crashing and banging in the night, especially when those predators like to wrestle each other. So, I wasn’t too concerned. I kept knitting…but then I had this little annoying voice in my head that was all, “You need to check on that.”
I sighed at the voice because I WAS BUSY and I don’t have time for voices in my head. But still, I put down my knitting and went upstairs to take stock of the situation. Twenty minutes prior, my adolescent hound dog was happily chewing on one of her many toys and seemed to be thoroughly entertained. In the twenty minutes I left her “unsupervised” (she’s a dog, not a baby. C’mon) she had found another way to amuse herself. Ripley had discovered there was a bottle of vegetable oil on the kitchen counter and had pulled it to the floor along with a few other items. (I didn’t even know it was out. I’m going to blame Kyle for this one) And not only had she pulled it off the counter, she had taken it to the couch, popped the lid off, and was trying to chug it like a freshman.
By the way, if anyone knows how to get vegetable oil out of a micro-suede couch I’m all ears. Freshmen are terrible at chugging.
So, I put her in crate with toys that’s she’s allowed to destroy, cleaned up the mess as best as I could, and went back to knitting. About half an hour later, I heard her coughing. And then retching. Did you know that chugging vegetable oil will give you an upset belly? Ripley sure didn’t. So again, I went to check on her. She had sat in her vomit and was looking at me with the most pitiful expression on her face. When I bent down to inspect the damage, she sprinted out of her crate and managed to hit me in the eye with her tail. Gentle Readers, she HIT me in the EYE with her vomit-covered tail.
That doesn’t feel good under normal conditions. It’s miracle that this situation didn’t make me curl up into a fetal position and die.
Maybe I should have. Ugh. I put her outside and cleaned up her crate. Then I brought her back in and cleaned foamy regurgitated vegetable oil off the both of us. She spent the rest of the evening snuggled up against me on the couch. I thought we were fine.
We were not.
We had been in bed for about an hour when Ripley suddenly stood up. And I when I say suddenly I mean she sprung up, like…well, like a loaded spring.
I asked her if she was okay. Because you know, when I’m mostly asleep apparently I think my dogs can respond to me in English. That’s a thing that dogs do, right?
She responded by explosively vomiting all over the bed. And my feet. I think she might have even gotten a cat too, because Nox made a very hasty exit. Then she lay back down and went to sleep like absolutely nothing had happened even though she had traumatized a very tiny cat.
This is not allowed. The whole reason I have dogs instead of kids is so that no one will projectile vomit in my bed at midnight.
I cleaned up that mess as well because my other option was to sleep in vomit. It’s always fun to see how far behind you are with the laundry when it’s past midnight. It makes you feel amazing about your life choices. I was all, “Wow. I’m super awesome at being an adult.”
I had finally made it back to bed when Ripley got up again and sprinted out of the bedroom. I shouted at her to get back to bed immediately. I was 10,000% done with her shenanigans and I was not having any more of it. She came back. I was proud of both of us. She had recalled so well! I had trained her and she listened! Good job, Ripley.
My pride was short lived. Vegetable oil is a laxative. Ripley had sprinted from the room because she was trying to get outside. When I called her back, she let loose on a pile of dirty laundry that I hadn’t taken downstairs yet. Not only am really good at being an adult, I’m also apparently a genius.
As I cleaned that up, I discovered that she had been eating Hawthorne berries. Should I make a joke about how she ingests the unborn in mass quantities? Or should I marvel at the evolutionary mechanism that allows tree seeds to be transported via animal waste?
I did neither of those things. I gave up. You would too if you had touched warm, feces-covered, partially digested berries with your bare hands.
I literally threw a towel over the remaining mess, washed (scalded) my hands, and went back to bed. This was a problem for Future-Me. Incidentally, Future-Me is also Tuesday-Morning-Me who ended up doing a lot of laundry before work. It was a rough morning. Ripley, on the other hand, was springing and spronging around like a bunny because life is a wondrous adventure for her.
Bravo, Demon Dog. Bravo. I might dump holy water on her head and see what happens. You know, for science.