Pepper and I made an emergency visit to the vet the other day after she sniffed out part of a dark chocolate bar hiding in my husband’s briefcase and made short work of it. The vet initially gave her a dose of apomorphine (so she would throw up) but it didn’t work. He then had to reverse course, give her a different med, and make sure she didn’t throw that one up. After the crisis passed, he told me that apomorphine works on about 90% of dogs.
We got home and Peppy napped. When she awoke, she was a bit groggy.
“That was so scary,” she said.
“Yes,” I agreed.
“My tummy still feels unsettled,” she added.
“Yes, I expect so.” She stretched out – gingerly – and I gave her belly scratches.
“I’m worried that the first medicine didn’t work,” she confessed. “It works on almost every dog. I heard the doctor talking about that. Why wouldn’t it work on me? Am I a strange dog? Is there something wrong with me?”
“Dear Peppy,” I comforted, “There’s nothing wrong with you. Sure, you are a little unusual. But – isn’t that interesting? You can tell a friend, you know, and it can be one of the best feelings in the world when your friend still loves you, and maybe even more.”
She considered. “Then I won’t mind it,” she concluded. “And I might even tell Jax and Sugaree,” she added, smiling just a little.
Later in the day she almost caught a bunny, which restored her general high spirits and sent me spiraling into another tornado of anxiety. (She truly almost caught it.)