I cannot believe my dog. Seriously. Last night I thought that she was dying; groaning, panting and drinking like she been in the desert for a week. I didn’t know what to do with her!
“She look bloated to you?” my sister asks, stroking the blonde red fur with her brows furled together.
“I dunno,” I reply, “but she’s miserable. Been through loads of water today and now she won’t settle at all. What could it be?”
We look at each other wide eyed, thinking about the instant onset diseases that a five year old golden retriever could have. Diabetes? Heart failure? Great long worms with fangs? Yuk! And I have not been walking her enough...oh god I’ve killed my dog! My sister and I confer quietly so the dog doesn't heat that it’s off to the vet first thing in the morning.
I worked into the wee hours of the night, sitting at my dining room table and squinting at the bright computer screen all the while worried about the panting and drooling of the gentle beast at my feet. At about 1:30 AM, I hear a strange noise behind me. I turn just in time to see my up to now perfect dog, her head shoved deep into the kibble bin that houses her brother’s kibble. A child proof, dog proof, practically raccoon proof bin. And she’s got her whole head in it scoffing kibble.
When we all stop laughing the next morning, we tally up the losses. That little piggy, even in the middle of her gastric nightmare, has wolfed down at least 4 POUNDS of Paycee’s kibble. No wonder she had a stomach ache. And bloat.
I haven’t killed her after all. She is suffering the after effects of gluttony. Poor, stupid little piggy.