Biking to and from work is addicting. I think about it through the day while I sit at my desk - what time I want to leave to avoid traffic, maybe I can leave a little early, I should have a snack before I go, should I try a new route today, how big is the possibility of rain - which makes my life more exciting - did my first rainy ride a couple weeks ago. I feel great when I get home or to work, and I am saving gas. I am getting to know the road intimately; the safe and unsafe places, where the big pot holes are, the places where people tend to cut you off to turn in front of you. One night someone passed me way to close and then shook his head like I was in the wrong. I saw him at the next stop sign, but he sped off before I could knock on his window and tell him about the Three Feet to Pass law (probably a good thing). So many people do not seem to understand that bikers are allowed to be in the road if there is not a safe shoulder. This has been a big learning experience for me and might even be making me a better driver. I have also discovered that the bus picks up in a couple of spots on my ride, which I can use to avoid the really dangerous parts of the ride. Reading the bus schedule is like trying to decipher ancient Mayan glyphs, but whatever - I am slowly figuring it out.
Dave is doing his group rides on Wednesdays and Saturdays which he likes. Riding super-close to a bunch of other bikers does not appeal to me, but maybe I will be able to get into that at some point. He is also training for the Savannah Century (a 100 mile ride in September) - because what would he do if he weren't training for something? This past Saturday Dave and I both left for morning rides shorty before catastrophy struck in the kitchen.
Warning: this post gets gross from here on - do not read if you have a weak stomach.
Our Weimeraner got into the garbage (again) and ate the remains of our Low Country Boil (again), then he went swimming in the pool, came inside, and dripped water all over the tile kitchen and garbage remains. For the non-Georgians - Low Country Boil is a dish made with peel and eat Shrimp, Sausage, Potatos and Corn Cobs with a variety of spices. For the non-pet owners - corn cobs are lethal to dogs. They do not digest the cob, which then lodges itself conveniently in their intestines - sometimes requiring surgery. The last time Neeko enjoyed our low country boil garbage was when Dave's friends were in town for St. Pats. The four of us sat around trying to get the dog to vomit and then counting corn cobs as the came up. We are excellent hosts - come visit! Two days later our free rescue dog went in for a very expensive surgery.
So back to Saturday - I arrived home from my short bike ride (due to a flat tire, good times) before Dave and was not greeted at the door like usual. Instead, Neeko began backing away from the door - tale down - ears down - the telltale sign that he has done something bad. The pantry door had been left open and was now blocking the view of the mess behind. I pushed the door and heard the remaining shrimp shells and miscellaneous garbage slide across the tile - then I looked at the dog, still backing away. Time is of the essence when it comes to swallowed corn cobs, so I grabbed the hydrogen peroxide and began chasing my wet, confused dog around the wet, shrimp shelled kitchen trying to get him to swallow enough to make a difference - all I got was a little drool, some foam and an angry stinky dog.
I arrived at the vet ten minutes later in an inside-out sweater, a lime green running shirt, wet black athletic pants covered in dog hair, and flip flops (somehow I remembered to take off my bike helmet). For those of you who don't know Neeko, he is big for a Weimeraner - plus he has huge mommy nipples stemming from the abuse he suffered before we got him (he was left in a cage with a bunch of hungry puppies - which, at this point, was starting to sound like a very feasible payback for Dave for leaving me to deal with this alone). So there I am at 9:00 on Saturday morning, stinky, angry, with a soaking wet, nervous, large-nippled male dog who smells like day-old shrimp. The vet techs know him (he ferociously cage guards when he's left in the back) and they know Dave and I (the suckers/morons who come in every few months and spend copious amounts of money for the same reasons over and over) - but to the nice elderly man with the perky Daschund and the normal young couple in with their new puppy - I must have looked a few cards short of a full deck.
One hour, two different techniques and several vet techs later, the regurgitated human food, dog food from his earlier meal, napkins and miscellaneous garbage pieces were successfully sorted by our veterinarian who always seems way to excited about - and comfortable with - dog excrement. FYI - his vet tech said the guy can perform a fecal, sort dog vomit and eat a muffin at the same time (this almost made ME throw up for the third or fourth time since I walked in there).
So I guess the outcome was good - no surgery was needed, the dog survived, and a very helpful husband fixed me a nice dinner and cleaned up the last of the mess when he got home. Yay for veterinarians, yay for bicycles, and if I never eat corn again, it might be too soon.
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