Guilt
Sometimes pet owners feel like the worst people in the world.
Graham's working tonight, so the puppies were terribly excited to see me when I got home. I hadn't seen them since early this morning, and I decided that we'd enjoy the outside as much as possible while it was still daylight. They played chase and ran around a little, and then Celosa retreated to the deck to chill out. She was so pretty and calm and serene, that I decided to take a few pictures of her.
In the meantime, her brother was exploring the yard. He go off and sniff something, and then come back to try to get us to check it out. He'd then go back out again.
Soon, he came trotting by with an eggshell in his mouth. I'd seen it on the deck and noted how tiny it was earlier. I quickly pulled it out of his mouth, threw it under the house so he couldn't get it, and sent him on his way.
Celosa and I resumed activities.
A minute later, I looked up in to the yard and saw Fusilli diligently chewing on something. He's never paid much attention to the oleander leaves before (and they're everywhere), but he was sitting under one of the trees. They're pretty toxic, so I went over to see what he was chewing.
I removed the leg of a baby bird from his mouth.
This baby bird was not the recent resident of the egg, or if it was, it'd grown considerably since vacating the egg. I had no idea where he found it or what state of decomposition it was in when he found it.
I quickly picked up the puppy, high tailed it to the bathroom, and poured hydrogen peroxide into his mouth. I haven't had to use this method in awhile, but it worked like a charm. Poor little chap was so trusting, so eager, so willing to please, he gulped down the hydrogen peroxide I shoved down his throat like a champ.
And then the upchuck. He didn't know what hit him. It was just awful to watch. The treats his daddy gave him right before he left were there. Plus a lot of foam and bile and other remnants. And then he threw up again. And then once more for good measure.
The happy, playful puppy of just minutes ago was sick and upset and terribly confused. Celsoa and I could do nothing but watch and offer encouragement and soothing noises.
He retreated to the bedroom for a minute, and then I picked him up and took him to the water bowl. He drank voraciously. He refused a treat.
His heart told him, "yes, I do want dinner." His stomach told him, "whoa there, buddy, are you sure you wanna rush things?" His stomach won.
For the first time since Fusilli came home, Celosa ate without someone hovering over her food.
It's been about a half-hour now, and Fusilli's stomach has decided that it's ok to eat. Still, it's not the voracious, "this is my last meal" rigor that such occasions usually warrant. It's a cautious, "will this stay down?" approach.
I know he'll be fine, and my actions may have been a slight over-reaction. Poor baby.