You know what happens when you assume... Turns out Strummer did get into the raw dough. Turns out he can't hold his liquor either. For those unaware, the yeast from the dough ferments in their warm, moist tummies and turns to alcohol. Having a drunk dog is not as fun as it sounds. Maybe he was the life of the party earlier in the evening but at 2 a.m. there is nothing but lots of the worst smelling puke to clean up and watching to make sure he doesn't do himself an injury while he's staggering around like an idiot babbling nonsense. Kind of like that roommate you had in college. Exactly like that roommate I had in college anyway. At least he didn't bring home a drunk 6'-6" tall guitar player from the rockabilly band he'd seen that night and let him pass out on my bed at 2 a.m. after I'd spent the night in studying for an exam the next day. But I suppose that's a story for another day. Or maybe not.
I'm not sure if this is a vet sort of emergency or the sort of thing you gut out but there is so much puke and he looks so terrible staggering around, at one point he's falling completely over, and he won't settle down so I consult the Internetz which I know is not always the best plan but at 2:30 a.m. I don't have any better ideas. Of course the Internetz is all 'Get that dog to a vet immediately, the quicker he's treated the better his chances of recovery' and '...kidney damage...' and '...outcome not so great if you wait too long...'. I hem and haw and keep my eye on him for another 1/2 hour and he looks a little better but not much and finally I reluctantly decide to take him in. I've never had good experiences with 24 hour vets and I avoid them if possible but I'll feel terrible if he ends up with kidney damage and I could have done something. The Internet is not too specific about treatment options-charcoal solution to absorb the alcohol and IV fluids is all they say-but I'm hoping the real vet will know what to do.
Well, the 'real' vet looks like he ought to be out playing bad Nirvana covers in some hipster indie band rather than doling out doggy medical advice. His first thought is that why don't I just go home, there isn't any danger here, they give alcohol to dogs all the time as treatment for anti-freeze poisoning. I explain about how insistent the Internet is that this is a serious medical emergency and he says, 'Well, o.k., I'll look into it to see what's a dangerous dose.' Strummer is staggering around the exam room on the smooth floor. 'Dude, you're harshing my buzz, can we please go home now and please tell that giant squirrel in the corner over there to quit staring at me.' I'm thinking to myself, 'I bet he's just consulting the Internet' and sure enough he comes back in the room and tells me he's consulted his internet vet service and they say his prognosis is good, all we have to do is admit him to the hospital for 24 hours and hook him up to IV fluids and monitor his blood acid (or something, it was 4 am and I was a bit foggy). So now we go from 'Go on home Missy' to a $750 stint in doggy rehab.
Can I get a bed next to Robert Downey Jr.? I hear he knows how to party.
I'm having one of those surreal moments where I wonder if I'm dreaming because I'm not sure how my life has come to deciding on the merits of doggy rehab for my drunk Border Collie at 4 a.m. on a Monday morning. I notice they're going to run some blood work before admitting him so I suggest that maybe we can run the blood work now and see how bad he is before I commit to this absurd expense. The vet agrees that maybe that makes sense and the results come back practically normal. I decide Strummer can dry out at home and the vet gives me some symptoms to watch for that would indicate he's getting worse. I'm not happy about the $167 vet bill but it's better than $750 and I finally have some piece of mind that he's going to be o.k.
I climb back into bed at 5 a.m. and have nightmares about the vet's creepy tattoo that covers the length of his arm. I'm up at 7:15 and Strummer is moving a lot better. I won't go so far as to say he looks good but I'm convinced he's through the worse of it. The vet did warn that there are such things as doggy hangovers.
I wonder how many Chicago style pizzas I could have had mailed to me for $167?