Tuesday, December 2, 2008

How To Scotch Tape Your Dog To The Bed

I know I owe you a post about my unexpected in-town vacation. But listen, # 1, I have something else to blog about and # 2, I am so going to disappoint you my story about the ten man shower.

See... it was a shower that could fit ten men in it. At no time did it have ten men in it. Although at one point, me and this guy were in the shower together.

Only, he's gay and I was just showing him how awesome the view was from the bathroom.

Yeah, it's way sadder than you could ever image. I wish I had a better story. I wish I had slipped a Tylenol PM in some cute guy's drink down in the lobby bar and then used a wheel barrel to scoop him up and deposit him in my ten man shower - which by the way, had a built in bench in it because the things that are supposed to go on in the ten man shower - you need resting for...

Yes, I am aware of the orange level of pathetic-ness on this one. Hence, the not writing any more about it.

Here's the real drama.

My dog Cooper, who I have an admitted unnatural attachment bordering on a Maury Povich guest appearance, got really sick while I was gone.

Apparently, before he was dropped off at my friend's house (he could not come to the hotel with me because it's in the downtown area and he is so spoiled he does not poop on concrete), he ate one of my Thyroid pills.

I must have dropped one on the floor.

The signs of Cooper's trouble included, and I hope you are not eating your lunch, explosive diarrhea, throwing up, uncontrollable pooping on expensive couches, foaming at the mouth and hiding under a guest house.

I whisked him off to the vet and was mortified when the blood test came back the next day to say Cooper had eaten one of my pills. It was my fault. I was officially a bad mother. (Though I was so glad I had just given him a bath and cleaned his ears - to me that was the dog equivalent of wearing clean underwear to the hospital.)

There was a lot of guilt, crying, fretting, beating myself up. I was scared he was going to die. And I was so insanely grateful that he didn't. This dog means everything to me. In a way that could be used against me in a trial.

Now that he seems okay, of course, I am out of my mind with worry about what else might be lurking on the floor that I can't see that Cooper might eat.

That's when I came up with the idea of scotch taping him to the bed.

I think it's a good idea. Even better than dosing a cute guy with a Tylenol PM and kidnapping him via a wheel barrel into a ten man shower.

My pup's weak now, so scotch tape will work. As he regains his strength, I might need something more durable to tape him to the bed with. Like duct tape. Of course, that might hurt his fur so...

I'm thinking first, I put him in his sweater, then I duct tape him to the bed. Then I can just remove him in and out of the sweater so he can go to the bathroom when he needs to.

Then again, I could just... you know... vacuum my entire apartment.

This blog is dedicated to knowing it could have been worse. And having a little fun with something that scared the hell out of me. And mustard garlic pretzel bits.