TIM E HOLDER

So, Halloween, 2015.

I knew I would have no ‘trick-or-treaters” since I live out in the Blair Witch Project and have only seen two monsters in the 18 years I’ve been out here. But, that doesn’t stop me from buying the obligatory Reese Cups and Almond Joys every year, just in case.

I was feeling the sugar high happies and decided to tackle a long overdue job and change out the dead lightbulb in my refrigerator. I can’t remember when it went out, obviously quite awhile ago…QUITE a while ago. I noticed a rubbermaid container in the far back right corner on the bottom shelf just above the veggie crisper drawer. I don’t know what possessed me to open it. But, I did. I felt sure I chanced onto a possible cure for some new designer locker room disease called “Shibola” which is a hybrid of shingles and ebola. I wonder if the Center For Disease Control has researched the curative power of green peas from the 80’s. On the off chance that I would not, in fact, be a nobel prize in medicine winner, I immediately took it out to the burn pile, away from the house, so the dogs wouldn’t be able to get in it.

Later that night when I took the dogs out for their evening constitutional, I couldn’t find Scout for a few minutes. And he NEVER lets me out of his sight. I glanced over and saw him high atop the burn pile, perusing his kingdom…like he’d just discovered a hidden kitty litter box. I screamed, “SCOOOOUT!!!” and he came running. The coolest kid on the playground. I don’t know how much of the offending entre he scarfed down, but I knew I had to keep an eye on him.

Later on, I was trying to write my lesson that I was to give the next morning at prison when I heard the unmistakable sound of a plunger in a commode and knew exACTly what was happening. I raced into my bedroom and heard him under the bed. I kept trying to coddle him out. “Come on out little man.” But, alas…it was to late.

When I got the courage to look underneath, it was total carnage. I was trying to think how I would ever be able to clean that much vomit out from under my bed without taking the whole thing apart when he started up again. I couldn’t even try to coax him out. I just watched in horrified fascination as he projectile vomited and I thought, “Oh look, more peas.” He must have felt a little better because he crawled out from under the bed and just looked at me like he’d hurled demons into a herd of pigs.

I took him outside for awhile and watched him wander around like he was dazed. I was a little concerned and called him to me. Normally, he will run as fast as possible until he gets right to my legs and come to a screeching halt. However, this time, he came at me, tilted his head to the right and plowed right into my knees, causing hyper extension and a bit of what I thought, unnecessary pain.

He was definitely stumbling and weaving. I was horrified. I grabbed him up and carried him into the house and immediately called Cliff Peck. One of the the top 5 vets in the universe. I said, “OH MY GOSH, I”VE KILLED MY DOG!!!”

When I told him what happened, he laughed and said, “Dude, he’s drunk.”

“What?…He ate moldy…something…with peas in it.”

He said, “Yep…some molds are intoxicants. He’s just drunk. Just watch him. Give him Pepto

Bismol if you have any and keep an eye on him. don’t let him eat tomorrow.”

So I went in and squirted some PB down his neck and made him get up in his bed that Aunt Jacqui gave him so I could continue to write for my lesson on Sunday. He just sat there looking at me. He leaned his head away from me and glared at me out the corner of his eye. He held his paw up to me, like he was trying to figure out which one was really me. It was like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. I kept waiting for him to say, “I’m ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.” When all of a sudden, he vomited again. I was just able to maneuver his head over the edge of the couch before he wretched all over me. I went cold when I looked down and saw red in it…and peas. “OH DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN…HE’S BLEEDING INTERNALLY!!!………..oh wait…Pepto Bismol.”

At that moment, I remembered the mess under the bed and decided I needed to go clean that up before…oh, no. I grabbed paper towels and a Kroger bag and ran to my room. When I got on my belly and looked under the bed,there was nothing. NOTHING!!! Just as I was thinking, “What in the…,” Chester, who is normally fairly adroit at jumping up on the bed, slammed into the side of it and glanced over at me as he slowly slid down the edge of the bed and onto his back haunches. He just sat there panting and looking at me. Desperately trying to focus on me. It reminded me of someone watching that old ping pong game on one of those primordial computer monitors. Back and forth…side to side.

Obviously, Chester felt it his responsibility to help Scout live up to Proverbs 26:11.

I’m getting a little nauseated at this point. Even telling the story is making me a bit woozy. I don’t want to say the word vomit again. I’m going to change it to something a tad bit more palatable. Since I had a few similar experiences as my dogs in my younger days with it, I’m going to use the word vermouth.

So, at this point, Chester peered sideways at me, got up and turned in an awkward circle a few times. I knew what was coming. I grabbed his collar and tried to pull him outside. But he got away and jumped up on the couch…and vermouthed. A lot!!! There were peas. So, now I have two dogs vermouthing simultaneously while I scream at Falkor who has jumped up on the arm of the couch and ready to high dive into the…vermouth. “FALKOR…GET OUTTA HERE.” He was crushed. Like I’d kicked a homeless person away from a banquet table. Whatever. “GET OUT!!!”

Finally, at about midnight, they seemed to calm down. I went outside and buried what was left of the…whatever it was. Something straight out of a Stephen King novel. But, I don’t think I buried it deep enough. I’m doing laundry and Gawa, my little rat terrior who is almost completely blind is high-stepping like a majorette. All she’s missing is the baton. Good gravy. Is there no half-life to this stuff?

I feel like the only things that will survive a nuclear holocaust are cockroaches, Twinkies, and peas that have been…vermouthed.