Monday, September 17, 2007


Last night as I was watching CSI, D randomly yelled "He's gonna be sick!". Now, I was a little preoccupied with drooling over CSI Stokes (phoar! tasty!) and to be honest, wasn't really paying any attention to anything D was saying. That is, of course, until I heard it. Yep, Phoenix started gagging. His sides started heaving. There was drool. Knowing what he's like, there was a mad scramble to remove him from upholstered objects, and as I knew there wouldn't be time to make it to the back door (and I didn't fancy unchewed Meaty Bites all over my front step) I did the only thing a dirty, country bred girl could do. I grabbed the plate we were eating dinner off, and shoved it under his gob while he barfed.

Now, let me tell you when I first had an issue with vomit. When my family dog, Babe, spewed, she did it well. I came home one day to an entire laundry full of sick, which smelt so vile, and was covered in a green foamy substance, it has been burned into my mind forever more. It took me AGES to clean up - stuck in that stinky room will half masticated rib eye, sloshing around in a pool of grass, stomach acid and string. Yeah, I don't know where that came from, but she had a real fetish for it.

So, of course, the first time Sahara vomitted in the car, so did I. It's like a chain reaction - she starts heaving, I see her go and it sets me off, and there's never quite enough time to pull over.

Last night was no different. But, to give me credit, I had managed to fully disinfect the plate and make the decision to never eat from it again before I upchucked. And I managed to be far, far away from any rug, couch or doona cover, which is more than I can say for the dogs usually.

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