The last few days in my house were fairly odd.  (Worse than usual.)  I’m back home from college for the summer, and my parents are doing some renovations.  The whole house was repainted to modern tones of blues and grays, the windows and appliances replaced, and, now, brand new hardwood.  The first floor of our modest, two story home will be out with the old and in with the new.  By tomorrow, it should be finished, and our sectional will no longer be stacked in the dining room.

But in the meantime there are workers in our house from 8:00 to 5:30 every day.  Don’t get me wrong; they’re great people, and I don’t have a single complaint in their regard.  My older brother, on the other hand, well, that’s a different story.

I should start out by explaining that we have two dogs.  One is called Melee, and she, contrary to the nature of her name, is sweet and spends most of her time curled up in the armchair in my room.  (That’s where she is right now.)  She’s a fifty pound black dog with a white tummy and floppy ears. The other is called Ruby.  She is a damn terror.  I think the dog rescue lied when they said she was surrendered as a puppy with the rest of her litter. I think she clawed her way up from the depths of Hell.  She seems innocent and unassuming, with strawberry blonde fur and white paws.  But I assure you that I am not that easily convinced.

Puppy and me.jpg

Today, my brother and I decided to go to lunch, and locked our obnoxious pups (pup) in his room as to not disturb the workers while we were gone.  Some pad thai and cream soda later, we returned to find that Ruby had single handedly (pawdedly?) opened his drawstring backpack and chewed its contents. Among them was some old plastic container that looked like it had jellybeans in it or something.  Were they Tic-Tacs?  Breath mints?  I couldn’t tell; the plastic bottle was destroyed to oblivion.  Both ends were chewed, the whole contraption was caved in, and you can forget about the label.  I handed it to my brother for inspection.

It was Ibuprofen.

Which, coincidentally, is highly toxic to both dogs and cats.


I should have been overwhelmed with panic.  Instead, I just started laughing.  A few phone calls later, I was instructed to feed my dog a teaspoon of hydrogen peroxide to induce vomiting so the pills wouldn’t poison her.  Easier said than done.  As it turns out, my plastic-eating, sawdust-consuming dog only dislikes one substance known to man.

You guessed it.  It’s hydrogen peroxide.

My brother and I spent half an hour in the backyard trying to hold my athletic mutt and splash enough in her mouth to make her throw up, while attempting to hide our entire situation from the floor installation guys.  My dog did not make this a simple task.  She slipped her collar, she clamped her jaw shut, she sprinted around the yard, and she tried our patience.

And she won.  We gave up and decided that a dog with this much fight in her probably wasn’t going to bite it anytime soon.  As I write this, she’s wriggling around on the carpet in front of me with her legs in the air.  I think she’ll make it.  As for my sanity, well, that’s a different story.

Have you ever had your dog ingest something unwise?  Do you own a dog?  Do you prefer goldfish?  Let me know in the comments.  Or whatever.  I’m not your mom.



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