Don't Do Toads

It’s been a long couple, few days, month. I don’t know. Someone said something earlier about how it’s been a long Friday. I thought it was Tuesday. So that’s where we are.

I’d like to say it started with Woody’s chowing down on a Texas toad. It’s not where it started. But we’re going to start there because the rest, I think we’ll be putting behind a paywall. So, toads. They’re toxic, turns out. I knew that. I’ve seen dogs come in contact with them and foam at the mouth. They don’t usually eat the toads. I know this because I’ve had dogs in Texas and because the vet who treated Woody said, “I’ve never had to deal with a dog eating one.”

What happens when a dog eats a toad, apparently, is after a day of every bathroom break being an emergency, you wake up to a sea of the unspeakable in your kitchen. At least it wasn’t the rugs. You clean that up and he can’t hold anything in. So you take him to the emergency vet and they give him some fluids, run some tests, send you home with some meds. The next night is worse. The next day, Friday morning, he’s shitting blood and won’t eat or drink. It’s fucking terrifying how fast a dog can go from a minor problem to a major issue. They kept him back there longer this time. He got some IV fluids, more serious meds. He’s been sleeping since. He did wake up around four and actually ate. So we’ll see how he does tonight.

One thing I kept thinking about, drinking shitty coffee in the lobby of uncomfortable, easy to clean seating, it’s really goddamn nice, when the vet starts discussing test and intervention options, to be able to say, “Whatever. I don’t care. Just do whatever you have to do.” It was only the last year or so of Teddy’s life where I could say that. I’d like to think that with Woody, I’ll never have to do the bare minimum—skip that test I can’t afford, hope we guessed right, maybe just the antibiotics because the anti-nausea is way too much, are you sure the x-ray is necessary.

It’s the worst goddamn feeling, rubbing your sick dog’s ears while you try to figure out if you can afford to keep him alive. I never want to feel it again.

He scared the shit out of me yesterday, because I scared the shit out of him. He didn’t know who I was. He looked up at me, and fucking panicked and tried to get away from the weird tall person standing next to him. Or I don’t know what he saw. He was scared of the stairs too. I had to carry him down. One of my neighbors, guy I’ve never met offered to help but I didn’t know if that would’ve been worse. He got the car open for me though. Weird shit you’ll do when you’re worried about a dog. Weird thing you’ll be sure of, the guy reaching into your pocket for the keys is actually just reaching into your pocket for the keys.

It’s different online. I posted something the first day. I really only posted it because I had to cancel something and didn’t want to get called a liar. So I posted a picture of Woody at the vet. Made a joke about toads. And I immediately remembered why I never want to tell the internet anything about my dog. Someone actually fucking made a pumpkin joke. It’s very funny. When Teddy was dying, had stopped eating, while I was waiting for the vet to come put him down, people kept telling me to try pumpkin. Now, years later, there’s a super fun brand of internet commenter who wants me to know they remember that. We’re best friends that way. And a funny thing to do when I’m worried about another dog, is to remind me of one of the worst goddamn weeks of my life.

Here’s a good place to drop the paywall. I apologize or you’re welcome. Here’s a picture of Woody.