260: Charcoal and...

I said I wouldn't, and I apologize.

But I'm thinking about today: I fell asleep some time after five in the morning (Libby, our oldest pet, our fiesty tabby cat, was barfing up the wet cat food I gave him last night--we ran out of dry) and Ryan woke me, saying, I need your help. Nonononono. I am sleeping.

I knew we had to clean for friends coming this evening, but I could sweep away the cobwebs in an hour or two. Really: let me sleep!

But Ryan said to me: There's something wrong with Zephyr. OK, enough for me to crack open the sleepy bugs and trundle out of bed. He threw up twice in my office and is trembling. It's weird. And outside, there he was, our one hundred pound lab mix, as if he had some kind of neurological disorder, his back legs not shaking or trembling, but doing this frightening compulsive dance. And Z, being invited to play by Penny, who is our subtle dog and Zephyr who is his own special kind of annoying when it comes to playing, but not wanting this, just drooling on the legs of my pajamas. Baleful eyes, all of it. And twitching in an odd way, garumphing onto the concrete and his legs jittering.

So of course I called the vet's office, which had closed exactly four minutes before and referred us to a clinic an hour away and Ryan hopped into the shower--Just going to--real quick!--. And I have to say, I hate it when my students text (and how silly, when they try to hide it), but I am so grateful for the little messages my husband sent me--telling me of his stop twenty minutes on the way (the sun roof, now open, his job tomorrow, a car detailer)--the little camera phone shot he took of the charcoal and how the vet knew Zephyr because she'd done her vet tech time in town and asked the ridiculous question: Is he willing to eat anything? Um, that's why he's here. Because we have to get him to eat this. A bowl of activated charcoal. Well, at least it's not another go at our compost heap. Yeech.

The above is the result. Little inkblots on our living room carpet--a burp of hello and a spatter on the crotch of the jeans (Chad: we're sorry!). Ryan calls out from the bathroom: I think an octopus exploded in here!

Here's to hoping tomorrow is a little better for our one hundred pound mountain goat. The guy is such a sweetie, it's hard to not wish him well. He's a burly thing, his face shoved right into your hand as you pet the other dog, but really, who can blame his ignorance? He is so good to cuddle against, after all.