Immediately – and I do mean immediately– after I posted the loving tribute to Girl the beagle < My dog’s nose is so sensitive—the prequel > I turned around and saw a lid on the living room floor.

For some reason I recognized it immediately as being from the 180 tablet bottle of chewable Rimadyl (doggy Advil) (that had been sitting on the table for at least a month with no sign of interest by her at all (couldn’t smell thru the plastic?)).

Since she’s been doing dogupuncture she doesn’t need the Rimadyl, so I had 81 tablets left to give to the American Eskimo Rescue group, a member of which lives up the street. I was happy because not only was I not wasting excess but I was also giving it to a worthy group and was going to get a tax deduction for it. I could almost FEEL the halo.

I ran into the living room and found the bottle under the sofa, where I figured it must’ve been beyond her grasp so she gave up. There were still tablets in it. Since I knew how many tablets were there previously I re-counted: she had eaten 43 of them.

   +  +   + 40 +   =        + $$$

Her maximum dosage before was approx. 35 mg/day, so 43 x 75 was a lot but I figured, “Well she’s had shots of it too—surely the shots contained more than what she ate.” WRONG! Those shots, I soon learned, are approx. THREE mg., and are so effective because they go directly into the whatever <blood, muscle>.

Just in case, I called the Animal Hospital and asked if this was bad. They recommended “getting her to vomit” (HA!) and asked how soon I could get there. They’re literally 5 min. away, so I asked if they could make her vomit (yes) and ran out with her. That’d be worth the cost of the visit alone.

Up to this point she had been her cheerful self, ready to go anywhere involving a collar. Except now that she HAD to, and she definitely wasn’t going willingly.

She ran back towards the front door and I had to chase her and carry her to the car. So much for being the “master”; “servant to the master” (sucker?) is more like it.

I was furious at this point since I have spent so much time, money, ‘psychic energy’ and TLC to get her well enough NOT to need Rimadyl, and here I was chasing her to go to the Emergency Room where I would pay again because she had overdosed on the very stuff I’d spent hundreds to get her off. It was an infuriating irony.

Background side-track: A few years ago I had to take her to another animal emergency room, and they basically accused me of throwing her down the stairs (Remember: Thoughts are not the same as deeds…). They didn’t figure out what was wrong with her and they charged me a few hundred bucks to find out nothing and they practically accused me of abuse. All that plus my previously-admitted “trust issues” <see Dead animal of the day > compelled me to call my sister and asked her to get another opinion from a 3rd hospital, which agreed with the one I’d called. dammit

In the waiting area I was still furious and she was still all cute and happy ’cause this was a new place to explore. We waited only a couple of minutes before being brought into Emergency Room #1. The vet came in and told me that the highest-known dosage survived by a dog was 400<blah-blah-scientific-measure> per <another blah-blah-scientific-measure>. And the dog that survived it was a retriever.

Girl-the-much-smaller-beagle had ingested 330 <blah-blah-scientific-measure> per <another blah-blah-scientific-measure>. Yet STILL I was in some kind of denial or shock or fury; am still not sure which: It didn’t really sink in that this was serious.

It didn’t start sinking in after he told me they’d have to give her fluids for 48 hours. I still didn’t realize he meant they’d put an IV in her and keep her for 48 hours. The mind truly blocks what it is not ready to accept yet.

They took her away to make her throw up and I paced, looked at the puppies and kittens waiting for adoption, went to the bathroom, etc.

Vet came back in, said they’d gotten her to throw up and put the IV in, and I could see her in a few minutes. But FIRST I needed to go see the front desk, sign papers and pay a down payment on the ESTIMATED cost for services.

Ruh-roah.

The fury starting to melt (“estimate”?!) , I went to the front desk. The things that (ahem) caught my eye were the 2-day ESTIMATE for $679 and “ICU-3.” When I asked what the “3” indicated, she said 1 was the lowest and 4 was the highest. Ever the patient one, I dug a little deeper: “Well does 3 of 4=good or does 3 of 4=bad?” Ever evasive, she said that 1 was the best.

Quickly deducing the meaning of this, I started to cry a little and most of my anger dissipated. Note I said “most.” I mean, before dogupuncture I seriously thought I’d have to euthanize her soon, and have been so grateful she was going to be around for awhile. And now here I was spending hundreds MORE dollars to “see” if she made it through the night.

Bear in mind too that before she started dogupuncture, I was resigned to having to put her to sleep soon. I was dreading it, but almost at the point of acceptance. When she started dogupuncture and became her old self again I was elated that she would be around longer, and I thought everything would be okay for a while. But no, she goes and overdoses, which totally caught me off-guard.

At this point I remember repeating over and over, “you stupid stupid dog” in a “please don’t die” tone of voice. 

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