Things About Dogs

Last night, for the second time in a week, I was awakened by a black cocker spaniel throwing up on my bed. If Aspen throwing up in my hair when we were at Disneyland was grounds for disowning, then this is definitely a good reason to have Emmy stuffed and mounted on the hood of Josh's car. Josh valiantly jumped out of bed and said he would take care of it, which apparently entailed dragging the tainted comforter into the laundry room and leaving it, then coming back to inform me that the slimy wet spot on the bed wasn't truly throw up, she just yakked. Oh. My bad. I will make sure I distinguish between the two next time at 2 AM so that I don't overreact. Several of the dogs have been throwing up around the house lately. As if it's canine junior high and bulimia has just now caught on. I know we have been after Penny about her weight, but this is getting ridiculous. We have been trying to figure out why, and Josh suggested his suspicion that one of our swarthier neighbors has been poisoning them by throwing undeniably tasty morsels over the fence. He's almost right, except the tasty morsels were OUTSIDE the fence, and I am the swarthy neighbor. I started a compost pile outside the fence on the back corner with all of my canning scraps, and Penny, dedicated scavenger that she is, figured out that she could nose the fence up a post in the corner and slither under. Oh, the perks of being legless. The other small dogs have been sharing in her indulgent forays, and the three of them come back home for a symphony of puking at inopportune hours and locations. It's special. One more cause to question my steadfast and life long love of dogs. Too many is just too many. And Penny is really more potbellied pig/mini hippopotamus than she is dog.


Lucky for Josh I have become so inundated with unthinkably gross things lately, like picking up poop in Aspen's room, and giant spiders on my arm and in my bed, and a wet spot on the couch that I haven't identified a source for and flat out REFUSE to smell, that I didn't insist that we get out of bed and clean Everything In A 50 Foot Radius, since usually throw up contaminates the Entire Room. I was half tempted to just tell him to put the "yakked" on side over by him, so I wouldn't lose my fluffy blanket. But I toss and turn too much, and couldn't stomach the risk. The offended coverlet is waiting for me now in the washing machine - threatening me with that "you let me sit here too long" smell. Does anyone want a mini hippopotamus?

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