Nacho staggered into the room, collapsing several times on his way to his bed. My humans rushed to help him, staring in curious horror. Was our ancient pup seriously ill, or had he eaten something again? Think.
|Psssst...Nacho...here's the plan...|
So far, 30 pound Nacho had eaten: a bag of Aleve (canine kidney killer) the evening of a company party at a brand new job, a bloodhound's anti-inflammatory (way too much for his tiny liver), and enough clean kitty litter to cause him to wretch and lurch and whine miserably until they once again made him throw up his treasure. Think.
|Hey Moksha! Hide your meds the next time you visit.|
Think. Nacho got up and timbered again. Think.
A small smile started playing on my human's face. "He looks like a pup who overdosed on flea medication... but how?" They rummaged through the packaging, checking the safety range. "Even if he ate Bacchus' too, this says it won't kill him or cause any permanent damage."
They looked at Bacchus, a notorious medication spitter-outer.
|Mr Bacchus, Oreo Bob Grey Dog, International Dog of Mystery|
They raised their eyebrows at Nacho, who looked like he had been partying with the wild dogs on the corner. They kept him cozy and put him to bed so he wouldn't hurt himself.
In the morning, Nacho insistently begged for breakfast like nothing had ever happened. He still tries to steal pills. And candy. And dirty clothes. And a sheet cake.