The grand kids were over on Sunday night and the next morning mom thought I was dying … well … not really dying but you get the picture.  She’s so theatrical … just ask dad.

She was so sweet telling me it was going to be okay, as I was throwing up all over the house, moaning more than usual, crawling on my belly, eating grass that hadn’t been peed on and trying to stretch my way out of the pain.

It didn’t help that Charlie was going completely nuts with no walk, no wrestle-mania, no fetch and no troll under the bridge (bed) game.

Then I heard the call to the vet … mom said she didn’t think it was a dire emergency but thought we should come in anyway.

I bee lined for MY fort under the bed … sans throw up … where I stayed until I had to throw up again and again and again.

Daylight was burning and I was pretty sure I was safe from the death camp car ride  … wishful thinking … dumb dog.  Dad scooped me up … put me in the car and cracked the window … here we go … I could hear Charlie screaming behind the garage door.

All I could think of was  …. this is bad … really, really bad … I hope I get to see my family again and damn I wish I could stop shaking.

At least dad was with me and he’s a stand up guy … there’s no way I’m in danger, so I’ll suck it up.  At least I didn’t throw up in the truck.

After all of the poking, indecent prodding and needle plunging … the verdict was announced and the kids were off the hook.

Diagnosis: Toxic foreign poop infection. Yep … bird, rabbit or otherwise. 

Shouldn’t surprise anyone that mom was right AGAIN …  I shouldn’t eat nature poop but all I have to say in response to that is …

 Hi, Jake.

On the mend, Jake

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