The other night, F and I came home from a movie to find out trash destroyed and an entire chicken carcass missing. I panicked. I’d read a lot of articles about shit that dogs shouldn’t eat and knew that cooked chicken bones were at the top of that list. Convinced that my dog was dying, I picked him up and ran into the kitchen to grab my phone to google shit. Because I was distracted and also panicking my coordination was a little off and I smacked my face into the wall corner and nearly knocked myself out. I whirled back and slumped down to the floor holding my forehead.
“Dude, when it comes to that dog, you can’t see anything else but him,” F shook his head at me.
“Suck it, buddy,” I groaned, “we might have to take him to the emergency vet,” I reached for the counter to grab my phone.
I typed, “What happens if my dog ate entire fucking chicken.” Google had conflicting information from, “OH MY GOD HE’S GOING TO DIE!” to “he’ll probably be fine but if he starts like shitting blood everywhere immediately rush him to the vet,” and “Beastiality legal in Germany.”
While stumbling around I nearly stepped in a giant mountain of disgusting. Initially, I was like, “A RAT DIED THERE!” but then I realized it was much worse than that. It was a pile of bones the size of a football. Oliver had essentially thrown up an entire fucking graveyard and there were thigh bones and little shards of ribcage poking out everywhere in a mound of brown substance. I gagged. And in between gagging felt a huge wave of relief that he didn’t digest any of it.
I picked Oliver up, “you’re a nasty little shit, you know that?” He licked his lips and wagged his tail like, “yeah, I know. Hi!” And I smiled and wondered how something so cute could be so disgusting. Then I cried because I had to scrape the remains from the hardwood.
M. E. Evans 