The other evening, when I arrived home, Peanut and Dobby seemed normal. Both dogs were happy and eager to go outside, and they very obediently performed several tricks for treats. I settled down with a book, waiting for Kevin to arrive home. After 10 minutes or so, Dobby left my side to stand in the corner of the room. His back to me, he began making heaving noises.
Now, Dobby has what I call an iron stomach. This dog is like a goat. He eats everything and never, ever has a bad reaction. Peanut, on the other hand, has a very sensitive stomach, the balance of which can be thrown off by simply breathing too much air.
So when I heard Dobby making the tell-tale regurgitation noises, I was surprised, and I ran to his side to hold him as he vomited up his breakfast, his treats, and a ton of dark, medium-sized seeds.
Weird, I thought. Dobby was only outside for about 10 minutes, certainly not enough time to ingest the amount of seeds that I just saw leave his tiny body.
After that, everything was fine for about an hour, but then Dobby began to change. His eyes grew wider, like he was in a constant state of surprise. His whole body twitched every now and then, and sometimes he would shake like he was cold. He walked strangely, like each movement was a huge strain, and his back legs extended out further than usual. Mostly, he would stare into space, his breathing pattern a strange requiem of quick, loud inhales followed by inaudible exhales.
My dog is going to die, I thought. But I resisted the urge to take him to the emergency vet because A) it is extremely expensive, and B) he clearly had eaten something bad but had already barfed up most of it, meaning there was probably nothing left in his system to harm him and nothing that an expensive emergency vet could really do to help. He was just going to have to endure.
Of course, Peanut, being a bigger jerk than usual, took advantage of Dobby’s deranged state by tormenting him. She pawed at him trying to get him to play, growled at him in consternation, and even used her teeth to attempt to drag her blanket out from under him when he plopped down on it, much like a magician attempting to remove a tablecloth from a dining table. Dobby, meanwhile, ignored all of her advances, as if Peanut were not even part of his world, and for the rest of the night, he simply sat and stared.
The next morning, Dobby seemed back to normal, though slightly sluggish. Outside, I checked his morning deposit for any sign of seeds but saw none. I began the hunt for the mystery seeds, relieved that my dog had survived the night.
I checked the bag of wild bird seed, and it was clipped tight. I checked Cheepy’s seeds, even though I knew the mystery seeds were not in his mixture (which Dobby sneaks bites out of all the time).
Then, it dawned on me. I had failed to check the one place that only Dobby goes: under the bed.
Dobby has shown an affinity for being underneath things since the day we adopted him. He frequently seeks shelter under our bed to escape Peanut or have some alone time. We often find him half in, half out: his head and front legs under the bed, his butt and hind legs sticking out flat behind him.
And I know that he hides things under there.
Energized by my epiphany, I grabbed a flashlight, lifted the bed skirt (“WHY DO WE NEED THIS?” roars Kevin every time we make the bed), and nearly collapsed with laughter at what I found.
There was an empty, cardboard bullet box (chewed to pieces), which had fallen from Kevin’s nightstand at some point. There were no less than three open condoms, some still in the wrapper, some strewn about, their packages torn to shreds. (These came from Kevin’s survival backpack, which we keep in another room. Only Kevin would think to practice safe sex during the zombie apocalypse.)
And then there were the seeds, lying in a pile next to the empty plastic bag from which they came. I retrieved the bag: morning-glory seeds!
Kevin originally purchased the seeds back in February, just after we had a huge tree cut down. The tree cutters had left a 7-foot stump, claiming they couldn’t cut any lower because of our fence. Puzzled over what to do with this ugly stump, Kevin thought it would be visually appealing to plant some morning-glory vines. Indeed, the stump is beautiful now: the vines climbed the entire stump (and the tree canopy above) and produced an abundance of royal purple flowers that bloom every morning.
And while morning-glory seeds do spawn beautiful flowers, they also produce psychedelic effects if ingested.
Unbeknownst to us, Dobby had found the seed package, dragged it to the depths of his under-the-bed lair, and ingested nearly all of its contents.
Though I felt horrible, I could not stop laughing at my discovery. Dobby certainly had his vices: condoms, bullets, and psychedelic drugs. I can only imagine what Dobby’s trip was like, and I hope that he at least had a good one.
“Maybe he finally saw in color,” my friend Chris suggested.
(For the record, Dobby is back to normal, suggesting that there were no long-term effects of his wild night.)