I’m rocking and rolling down the Metro line to Big Boi’s Bust, hoping for the unlikely arrival of wakeful consciousness to my brain. If only I could inject the pumping energy of the music into my veins as easily as I can press its beat into my head with earphones. [Note: I started writing this on Friday morning, but life ensued, and so I’m finishing it Saturday night.]
Everyone else on the train seems to be in the same state, although I didn’t see any of them at the animal hospital at midnight last night, so I’m hoping that they have better reasons for their stupor. Yeah, so, I was down visiting Barky, who is again an inpatient at the hospital due to raisin ingestion.
Ever since our last adventure, we’ve been crating Barky any time we leave the house, but yesterday Mama forgot to do it as she was bustling 3B out the door to preschool. It’s especially understandable because this week Mama’s been feeling rundown and a bit nauseous at times, which can be a little distracting, especially when chasing after a one-man marching band.
It didn’t help Mama’s nausea that she came home to find that Barky had eaten everything he could get his fuzzy little snout on, including boxes of raisins, which meant that she had to wrestle him to the bathtub to chuck salt down his throat in hopes he would puke. Because she wasn’t offering tequila or a lime with it, he refused the salt. So, she tried hydrogen peroxide.
Even after telling Barky that it was reposado, he wasn’t having any of that either, and horked up some foamy slime to demonstrate his displeasure.
So, it was back to our favorite pet emergency hospital, where he also demonstrated that he was not in the mood for their shenanigans by refusing to eat the charcoal-laced canned dog food. Seriously, a dry-food eating beagle refusing canned food. That’s as unusual as Jabba the Hut going on a hunger strike. They also said they weren’t that worried about making him barf, since it sounded like Mama had gotten something up. They clearly didn’t know what dog they were dealing with, and Mama demanded that they give him the injection to cause him to barf. Good thing, since he gave up, in their words, “four huge piles of food.”
Beyond that, however, this time all of us knew the drill and were more comfortable with it, which was good, although it’s not as if it wasn’t nerve-wracking.
Perhaps I noticed this last time and just forgot, but I was suddenly aware of all the times I think about Barky through the day. Every time I open the cabinet where we keep his food and expect to hear him clicking his way across the floor just to see if it’s meal time, every time I get within three feet of the front door and expect to hear him wake up and stretch in case a walk is in his future, and every time I sit on the couch and curl myself up on half a cushion because I expect that he’ll be taking up the other two and a half cushions.
We did visit as much as we could, and 3B was somewhat interested in the IV plug in Barky’s leg, but he was even more interested in the mountainous test track at the Range Rover dealer next door, which we played chase on while Mama walked Barky around to pee out the gallons of fluid they were pouring in through that IV.
Barky seems to have made it through this ordeal as well as he did last time, although they did send him home with the Trotskyites, which is irritating, but better than acute renal failure. He’s acting now as if he didn’t sleep for the past two days, which probably isn’t true, but he likely didn’t get his standard 22 hours of sleep each day, so he’s too tired to even stretch out across multiple couch cushions.