What's gotten into our dog!

Wow! She started going crazy. Had to go out. Had to! Urgent. Whining and running back and forth. I’d never seen this. I opened the front door, and out she shot, rocket. Ran to grass and began eating insanely. More, more, more! Not stopping. Like it was a grass-eating contest. “Hey!” I said. “Don’t eat that!” She paused, looked at me for a half second, then recommenced. Manon, our dog.

I ordered her inside. She came in, with one look backward. That did nothing to assuage. She begged to go out again. Restless, didn’t stop moving. Her instinct telling her something she must do. I let her out, again. Same scene. She, wandering a bit, looking at me like, “La de dah, I’m not going to eat grass, not me! Just checking things out here, Rich. Hey! Look at that, over there!” Then, diving in again, grass maniac.

I commanded her back inside again.

This went on, and on. Didn’t stop. In, out. In, out. Obsessive! What’s gotten into her?

Trying to contend with this must-do behavior, no solution in sight. What to do? I call the vet. Soonest appointment, two hours away. Ok, ok, I’ll take it.

Then, discover she’s barfed. On her bed. I see remnants of grass, chow, slime. I have some relief. Still, she wants out. Still, she wants grass. Insatiable.

These fears of mine are reminiscent of what I experienced with my daughter when she was a little girl. My alarm today is like the alarm I felt when my girl got sick. Worry and helplessness are the two tonics parents must drink from time to time when their child is ill. It’s especially bitter when your child can’t talk yet, can’t tell you what hurts or where.

To the vet, at last. Manon’s not happy there, never is. Vet says: she probably ate grass to throw up. (The Internet had said the opposite! F the Internet.) Or! She might have swallowed something—part of a toy, for example. Or gobbled up something foul—cat scat or some part of a dead animal.

Did we feed her something spoiled, inadvertently? Was it us?? Are we guilty?!

He took an X-ray. Showed me the result. Pointing at the ghostly body, he couldn’t see anything obvious, except a small sliver of something. Not large enough to worry. He gave her a shot to calm her down and relieve her of her nausea.

“If she throws up in the next 24 hours,” he said, “bring her back in, and we’ll do a series of more detailed tests.” If, the vet said, she had swallowed something substantial, he would have to operate.

He gave me some special dog food that was good for calming her restless stomach. Total cost: $200.

Back home. My wife returns from work. We watch our baby carefully. Alert to notice any upset. She eats the special dog food! Doesn’t have an unstoppable desire to devour grass! Seems better!

So attached to this animal, we are. To this creature. To this blessed dog. Would go batshit crazy if she…can’t even say it!

She sleeps all right that night.

Next morning. Baby, baby, baby. How are you today? Feeling better? Feeling ok? How’s the tummy?

You scared me to death. Whew.