Sick As a Dog

Last night we had just finished dinner and were watching our newest Netflix arrival when Buddy got sick. I don't mean a little puke; I mean a geyser of vomit on the rug, approximately two inches from the wood. You know, Linda always got sick on the wood floor; I think she knew it would be easier for me to clean up and was trying to be as considerate as possible under the circumstances. Yet Buddy insists on aiming directly for the rugs. I don't know if he was sickened from watching "Dexter" or if it was from his foray into sh*t eating, but I'm guessing from the smell that it was the latter. Honestly, it smelled like he had just pooped on the rug. Apparently dog poo doesn't digest very well. I went to work cleaning up the mess and Art put Buddy downstairs, where he promptly threw up again. Twice. Art actually cleaned up those messes for me (which were much smaller and less poopy than the first mess), but only because he has a cold and can't smell anything (although he did complain that the vinegar cleaner I make makes the smell permeate even the stuffiest of noses).

Art's convinced that Buddy has the stomach flu. I tried to explain that while dogs can get stomach viruses, my assumption is that when they do, their puke doesn't smell like poop. He didn't really believe me and I didn't feel like pushing it.

So Buddy slept downstairs on his dog bed complete with about seven blankets; he's so used to sleeping on our bed that I wanted to be sure he was comfortable. Reading that makes me think of the interview I saw with the Dog Whisperer where he said that when he died, he wanted to come back as a dog in America because they are so completely and thoroughly spoiled. I know how pampered Buddy is; he always has some sort of leftover mixed in with his dog food, he gets to sleep on the bed, and is generally treated like he's our child. But at least I recognize and admit it, right? Buddy is our child and we love him as much as parents love their (human) children. Linda was just as spoiled and we fed her cheese, eggs, and pancakes (she wasn't allowed on the furniture, though, because she left behind an old dog smell) and she lived to 14 which is much older than Dalmatians are supposed to live, so I feel justified in spoiling Buddy. It's actually good for him!

It was a lonely night; Buddy in the basement and Art, because of his stuffy nose that makes snore like a chainsaw, slept in the other bedroom. Buddy is back to his old self today, jumping around and the like, so tonight the bed won't be as lonely and my feet will be kept warm by his fat ass.