On Monday, life was the pits.Papa pulled a sealed bag of cherries from my tote bag and ate them in the living room, her favorite place for her treasures. She tends to eat no-no food sloppily: while some dogs lick up every last crumb, Papa likes to leave a little something for you to clean up.
Some fruit can be toxic for dogs, so I thought I’d better check. Alas, cherries are on the list: the pits release cyanide when they're broken. The receptionist suggested I bring Papa in.
As she wrote "ate ten cherries" on the "reason for visit" line, she said, "I grew up with border collies. Aren't they great?" Um, yeah. Great.
Papa had a quick exam right away. Thalia, who had to do stuff like take Papa’s temperature in her bum, was very gentle and patient. On her way out, she said, “It’s nice you found another dog to give your love to.” She was very kind, just like she was last summer, when we had to put Ginger down.
Keith, who also helped me out last summer, accompanied me for Papa's adventure. This time, though, we were all pretty lighthearted. I think Papa liked having him there. In fact, doesn’t she look delighted to be hanging out with him in the cat room?
About an hour later, the vet came in. Papa seemed fine — and a couple of hours had passed since the cherry consumption — but the vet said she still wanted to induce vomiting. So she took Papa to another room. A little while later, she came back and said there were exactly ten cherry pits. Intact. Good girl, Papa!
Two hours and almost $200 later, I’m glad Papa was okay. But really, Papa, was all of that necessary?
