Mason, our recently adopted, eight-year-old, previously abused, and therefore slightly neurotic chocolate Labramutt has separation anxiety issues. Every once in a while, if there is some paper, cardboard, or something interesting left laying around, he'll shred it a bit.
Evidently this allows him to focus on something other than the fact that his MOMDOG IS GONE.
He apparently grabbed a container of blue plastic toothpicks -- I'd left them on the coffee table, disturbing the norm, and therefore, his comfort level -- and destroyed the container, scattering hundreds of toothpicks all over his dog bed. For Mason, that's enough. Just a moment of frenzied distraction. (ohmygod, where is she, when is she coming back, ohmygod my mom is gone, holyshit where the fuck are my people ... look ... toothpicks ...)Batman, however, must've thought Mason had unearthed some tasty treat. I found several slimy toothpicks, bent into strange shapes and flattened with toothmarks. Batman slunk over to a corner with the whites of his eyes showing.
Great.
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Batman eats anything. He's not a chewer; our shoes and other belongings are safe. He eats any vegetable or fruit, things most dogs would not touch. He'd make a great vegetarian. The dog eats lettuce for Pete's sake. (No, my dogs do not share my vegetarian diet. Dogs need meat.) He also loves candy. That's the downside. There is one other thing he likes.
For those of you unfamiliar with Batman's sordid past, he got into the bathroom trash not long after we adopted him. Evidently, tampons are pretty much like candy for dogs. Yeah. Cost me $1,700 (plus vacation days and some sleepless nights) to rid my dog of three intestinal blockages.
Anyway, fast-foward back to the toothpicks. It took me about five seconds to assess the scene. I should join the CSI crew. I can not deal with the cost of another dog-surgery right now!
Shitshitshitshit!
I hope against hope that he hasn't actually SWALLOWED any of the dangerously pointed toothpicks. They look like miniature javelins spread out on the dog bed. I hope that if he has, in fact, swallowed them, he will have chewed them into a soggy soft mess, blunting the ends. I hope that canine stomach acid is as strong as it's reputed to be. Strong enough to digest plastic before it perforates tender intestinal walls.
He's not talking.
Later, Batman found my daughter's two-pound bag of jellybeans. She had eaten less than 1/3 of the bag. He left only a small piece of the bag itself. Great. What are the odds? The last time he ate something like that was ... well, you know. Now, twice in one day! He didn't want his dinner. NOT normal. Even during the Great Tampon Escapade, he ate his dinner. Wolfed it, actually. True, he puked it up immediately afterward, but he damn well tried to eat it. I hope against hope that the jellybeans have just made him lose his appetite. Like a two-year-old with too much cake.
He pukes up the little bit of dinner he did eat. And an assload of jellybeans. And half a dozen toothpicks. He manages to place this mess so that it spreads over the edge of the dog bed and both dog blankets onto the floor. He's nothing if not thorough.
Shitshitshit. He did swallow them. I spend the next two days following him out in the yard with an umbrella and a flashlight, waiting for evidence that his poop routes are open. He finally gave the all clear. No dog surgery.
Thankyouthankyouthankyou, Saint Francis of Assisi.
