Sick Puppy

sick puppy

It seems that all the organic, inorganic, unidentifiable, and truly disgusting things that Milo has eaten over a lifetime of 11 1/2 years has finally caught up with him. After three weeks of severe gastrointestinal issues, Milo has at last been diagnosed with Irritable Bowel Disease. I say, if I were Milo's bowels, I would be irritated too.

Some things Milo has eaten in the past 11 years that stand out include, but are in no way limited to:

Cell phone;
box of tea bags;
doggie diapers;
photographs;
books;
one over-sized stuffed chair;
empty ziplock bags;
bamboo knitting needles;
3 pairs of glasses (totally my fault. I had a fairly steep learning curve regarding proper storage of my glasses).

Seriously, I can't believe it's taken this long for his bowels to become so irritable.

Count Your Chickens

For Mike and I, there is little else so disorienting and disgusting than waking up to the sounds of a dog retching. I'm sure you see where this is heading, so please feel free to bow out now. This story is not really for the faint of stomach.

At 5:50 a.m., I woke up to the sound of Milo throwing up all over the steps that lead downstairs from our bedroom. A quick visual didn't show anything too concerning, however, after gathering towels and carpet cleaner, upon closer inspection I saw something that looked like a soggy, swollen french fry. After some poking and prodding by Mike, who had since been recruited to assist, I, in my infinite veterinary knowledge, determined that Milo had vomited up part of his own alimentary canal. This was concerning, but Mike talked me back down and we went back to bed.

At 9:00 a.m., Milo went outside and vomited something that I was entirely certain was a part of his own stomach. I called Mike, who was en route to the Think Tank, and asked him to come home, as it was clear that Milo was not long for this world. I don't think you can live very long once the vomiting of body parts commences. Am I right? Right.

So we took Milo to see Dr. Jeff (best veterinarian in the world, and this coming from someone so obviously possessed of erudite veterinary wisdom, as you can tell). We took the body parts in sandwich bags so that Jeff could properly inspect them. Jeff looked at them, poked them and generally dissected them, and looked at me with obvious concern on his face. "Have you counted your chickens lately?" he asked. I told him I was pretty sure all eleven were accounted for, but I couldn't be certain. To which Jeff replied, "Well, these are definitely body parts, but they aren't Milo's body parts. I really think you should go home and count your chickens."

Sub-q fluids and some anti-emetic injections later, we're home and Milo is resting comfortably. All chickens are accounted for.