Tug walked into my Me Only Room the other night and sat and sighed and said, I don’t feel so good, Boss.
And then he threw up on my foot.
Sorry, he said.
Dude, I said, squishing my toes around. Tug looked anywhere but at me.
I hopped out to the kitchen to get paper towels and clean it up and while I was doing that, Tug trundled out, spewing all over the living room carpet.
DUDE, I said, maybe a little more forcibly. I mean, c’mon, half our house is tile and he has to throw up on the carpet?
So I followed him around, cleaning up his dog vomit wondering how much dog vomit can one dog have?
When Miss Carol got home she went into hyper-mommy mode, wanting to know if he’d eaten (no), or pooped (uh,no) and then she stared at me with her oh-okay-I-get-it-you’re-one-of-THOSE-guys eyes and went to call the vet.
The vet agreed to see Tug so we went speeding through the streets to the vet with Tug laying in the back of Miss Carol’s Jeep and Cutter standing between us on high alert.
What a princess, Cutter muttered to me.
The vet looked at Tug and x-rayed him and poked and prodded and decided that Tug had a stomach virus and gave him a shot to stop his vomiting and told Miss Carol and me how to care for him for the next 48 hours.
And he’s fine. He came around and he’s eating again and humping Cutter.
So last night Miss Carol and me are sitting sipping a cocktail, just glad it’s over, relishing the moment, when Cutter came and sat down between us.
Ahem, um, I don’t feel so good, he said.
And threw up on the carpet.