Is it too late to rename her Marley?

Right about now, as the plane gained speed on the runway, I would be holding on to the cross that hangs from a silver chain around my neck. My eyes would be closed and I would feel a certain amount of stress fall from my shoulders as the tires lifted from the ground. Right about now, I should be on my way to a week in Vermont.

What's that saying about life getting in the way of plans? I'm officially changing that to LABS getting in the way of plans. One Lab in particular.

Here's another question for you: What do rum cake, boiled shrimp and potatoes, a box of Godiva chocolates, a wheel of Parmesan cheese, a five-pound tenderloin, a plate of brownies, a pound cake, a King Ranch casserole and a Christmas ham have in common with turkey sausage and Rigatoni?

I'll tell you what they have in common. They are all things that over the years Cheyenne has managed to drag off of counters and consume. The latest was last night.

On top of the stove, pushed back against the back splash, presumably out of reach, sat a foil-covered 9 x 13 Pyrex dish of innocent and yummy Rigatoni with turkey sausage, tomato sauce and a lot of cheese melted throughout. Somehow Cheyenne managed to get hold of it and move it to the edge of the stove top and then pull it crashing down to the tile of the kitchen floor. I swear that dog has thumbs. And of course after all that work, there was the reward splattered and shattered all over the floor. Glass be damned, she ate that cheesy turkey pasta right up.

In my cool and collected way of keeping calm and realistic when it comes to all things Cheyenne, I freaked. I didn't simply freak, I FREAKED!! I freaked the kind of freak that is all caps and two exclamation points. Then I called the emergency vet and asked if, given the situation, I should bring her in. Their response was in the affirmative and they suggested that I do so immediately.

On the way to the vet, Cheyenne gagged a bit and coughed up a splatter of drool and blood. Not much blood, mind you, just a little dot, but enough to launch me straight from FREAK into PANIC, which at that moment translated from driving the speed limit to the hell with the speed limit.



We spent the next three hours at the emergency vet, with activities including her vomiting a pound of spaghetti which contained glass, induced vomiting (what the vet referred to as decontaminating her stomach) which contained glass, x-rays confirming punctate mineral debris within the pylorus (aka, glass in stomach) and eating cotton. Eating cotton? Yes, they fed her cotton to snag the glass bits through and out. You get the idea. I learned last night that a dog that will eat Pyrex won't bat an eye when it comes to eating cotton, just soak cotton balls in chicken broth and present to the dog, it's that easy.

Cheyenne took all of this in stride, though I did some pacing and hand wringing.



This morning, instead of flying off to Vermont, I am in the middle of a prescribed 24-hour watch, which includes getting familiar with her poop. Vermont will (fingers crossed) happen for me tomorrow. The bottomless pit glass-eating patient with thumbs is curled up in a brown ball asleep on the chair at the moment, completely unaware of my shredded nerves and rearranged plans.