This is Your Dog on Drugs

 Just a quick post before I proceed with the five-stars, because I keep vague-blogging about Lucy being a little dopehead last week-end and felt like I should clarify.

Anne asked what kind of dog Lucy is - she's half chihuahua with poodle and yorkshire terrier, so we call her a Chipookie. We see all of her breeds on occasion: she gets crazy-eye chihuahua face sometimes, she sheds very little, and she shakes a toy like it's a rat that insulted her mother. 

Eve had been asking for a dog since she was small. I was a little apprehensive because I love dogs, but I've never owned one, and I am an easily overwhelmed woman. Matt had dogs growing up but wasn't jumping at the bit. Angus was indifferent. I started telling her that we could talk about it when she was ready to take responsibility for the dog, walk it and pick up its poo. Unlike most kids who would like, she would think about it and say "I can wait".

I've always loved big dogs, but we live in a neighbourhood with houses that are very close together and small yards, and our neighbours have a chocolate lab who is adorable but does seem big in their house and yard. Then they got a second dog, Riley.

The day they brought her home I could not freaking BELIEVE how cute she was. We puppy-sat a few times, and then I said to Eve that we could get a dog if it was like that, and we emailed the person who owned the parent dogs to see if she was planning another litter. 

When we babysat a baby dog and a baby baby

(Yes, technically we shopped, didn't adopt. I am all for rescuing a dog if that's your jam, but I was nervous about what I could handle. And we didn't pay for the dog, just her first shots.)

We brought Lucy home on Eve's 12th birthday. And now we had a dog.

It was weird. It was wonderful. It was February. And really fucking cold. House training was a bit of an issue. We just kind of got used to cleaning stuff up, which was not that bad because it was all tiny. Walking was only to the end of the driveway, until one day when she suddenly vaulted the snowbank and started to pull me down towards people talking in the next driveway, which I had to call a halt to because I was bralass and Thelma and Louise were frozen and not up for company. 

For a few weeks I took a break from whatever I was doing after lunch and watched tv while cuddling a sleeping puppy. That was pretty awesome. 

She won everybody over in short order. 

Matt was determined that we would crate her when we left the house and at night.

That worked for a few weeks. Then she got wise to me and, well, she was fast and small. And Matt went away and as if I wasn't going to let the puppy sleep in bed with me. Then he got home and went up to bed early and half an hour I thought 'oh shit', ran upstairs and he was in bed and she was asleep on his butt. So that was that.

So, fast forward a few years and we have a dog, and everything is cool. And then I take her for a walk after dark soon after New Year's Eve, and after I get back she starts acting really weird. The way her head was shaking made me think she had brain damage and I was terrified. We went to the emergency vet and they took her away and then the vet came back to talk to us and said she wasn't a mandated reporter, but this was 98% likely marijuana toxicity so did we keep pot in the house?

I texted Angus "look, I won't be mad, but.." and he said nope, no way. We got her settled and started the drive home and Matt said "look, I won't be mad, but...." and I said IT WASN'T ME (this was years ago, it wasn't legal yet and there was no way there was any in the house. A few years later someone gave me a joint at a Halloween party and I stuck it in my bra and then got home and threw all my stuff in the wash and then had to search the laundry room frantically so my bra joint didn't kill my dog). 

The next day we went back and the vet tech told us that this happened pretty frequently to people after walking the dogs, because people drop the little roaches and they smell delicious to animals. She also told us about a couple who brought their dog in and when they were questioned the dad said "well we shared a cookie that was in the freezer and I don't feel great either", and then their son was in a lot of trouble. 

So it was a scary night and an astronomical vet bill. We did some reading and agreed that if it happened again we should probably try to ride it out at home.

It was some kind of Murphy's Law thing that whenever Matt traveled when the kids were little (which was a lot), one or both of them would get sick or injured the second he was out of Canadian airspace. I thought I was clear of all that once the kids grew up and left home.

I still had a dog.

Same deal. Walk, then strange behaviour. I settled her on her blanket on the couch, and she promptly barfed, which was gross but I thought it might be a good thing. I put another blanket down and put her down. She was obviously distressed - she kept startling as if something was flying at her, and couldn't put her head down. I called Matt just to check that he was good with me sticking to our previous plan, but I was feeling really freaked out being the person who had to make the actual call. 

I had a really good group on my local Facebook chat offering counsel and encouragement. We all did some reading and most of it indicated that a small amount of marijuana was very rarely fatal, and that the night would be unpleasant but not tragic. The major problem was that most of what I had to do was wait and see, and I am very, very poor at waiting and seeing. I kept trying to force-feed her chicken broth, because one article had said if she couldn't swallow then it was time for the vet. Then I gave myself a shake and realized that she was swallowing fine, she probably didn't want any food or liquid because she was nauseated, and not having water for a few hours wasn't going to kill her. 

So I waited. I sat on the other end of the couch with a book and checked on her every few minutes. After a couple of hours she finally put her head down and curled up as if she was comfortable enough to start sleeping it off.

After another hour, I picked her up and set her down outside the back door to see if she might pee right there. She actually went down the stairs and looked around a little. She didn't pee, but when she came back in she ate a small treat and licked some water off my hand. After that I was confident I wasn't going to kill her.

I was awake until four a.m., although she was asleep and probably fine by two or so. We both slept pretty late, and when I got up to let her out and feed her she was back to normal, which was much sooner than the 18-24 hours the internet had prepared me for. 

Is it weird that after these little episodes I am totally fine with people making jokes about my stoner doggy? That I make them myself? Enh, my family deals with things with bad humour, it's not strange that my friends do the same thing. 

Can you believe I've never had to nurse my kids through a bad hangover or trip, and I've had to do it with my dog TWICE? I was so anxious I nearly popped an edible myself. 

Don't do drugs!