Convinced her kids think she tried to kill her son’s dog, my friend rushes the sick pet to the vet.
“He ate rat poisoning,” she tells me in a panic via her cell. “I called poison control and they said rush him in ASAP.”
Two things cross my mind. First, how did the dog get into rat poison. And second, how do you get in touch with poison control? I figure the first question is counter productive so I go for number two. “Poison control?” I ask.
“Don’t you ever read the back of the boxes?” Her words slur together.
Sensing an escalation brewing, I change the subject. “Why does your son think you wanted to hurt the dog?”
“Because I say it all the time. I’m going to kill this dog. Now he’s sick and probably going to croak.”
Over the line I hear horns honk and imagine her running red lights, tearing down the road. All this for the four-legged spaz she claims to not care about.
“I didn’t really mean kill, I just meant, get him out of my way.” Tires squeal and her engine reeves. “Oh my goodness. He’s whimpering.”
Not sure what to say, I listen.
“Please, please, please,” she chants. “Let him be okay because even though I did it for the bird, they’re is no way I’m blowing up the dogs butt.”
Oh yes, did I fail to mention. She’s certified in what she considers pet CPR. (A nice big breath in the crack.)
“I’m here,” she shouts. “Call you when I know something.”
With that, the line goes quiet. While I’m waiting, I wander into the kitchen and take a look under the sink. Boxes. Tons of them. I’ve never considered reading. Just as I’m about to scan the back of the first container, my phone rings.
“You’re not going to believe this.” My friend again. Voice much calmer this time. “They stopped the bleeding in the lungs.”
“Good news, right?”
“Well, yes, of course. But now he needs a blood transfusion.”
I didn’t want to laugh. After all, they’re family pet is not quite out of the woods. But sometimes my imagination gets the best of me. My friend, not of lover of this dog, chasing the pet ambulance to the doggie ER. A slightly funny visual. (forgive me) Luckily my PC filter flew up and I quietly stayed on the phone until she arrived at the specialist.
I’m happy to report that the dog is fine. Better than that actually. He received the blood of a Greyhound and now gallops like the wind. When my friend came home, her son greeted her at the door. Relieved. Delighted and emotional. “Mom,” he said to her. “You’re a complicated woman. I didn’t even think you liked the dog.”
E.L. Chappel author of Risk/Spirit Dance
Actions speak louder than words
aka The Glamours Wife