I didn't think I'd get to say this until July, but the weather in Massachusetts has been absolutely GORGEOUS this week. I have a slight sunburn on my cheeks. SUNBURN! Oh, the glory. And because the weather has been so wonderful, B and I have been taking Rooney on long walks through a golf course in our town. Since the course is still closed for the season, there are usually dozens of other dog walkers there, making it a huge doggie playground with sand traps.
While B and I walk or jog, Rooney spends his time zipping down fairways and leaping over sand traps like a dog possessed. On Saturday afternoon, somewhere around the fifth hole, Rooney skids to a halt cartoon style and starts furiously sniffing. Then he picks up a small clump and starts tossing it in the air. As we get closer, B yells to Rooney to drop whatever is in his mouth. A few steps further, and we realized what it was: a dead mouse. I repeat, A DEAD MOUSE. A mouse that had previously left his now-decaying body and passed into the great mouse heaven beyond.
So B's all, "oh my god it's a mouse!" And I'm all "IS IT ALIVE?! GET IT OUT!" And B's all, "no it's dead! It's a dead mouse!" And Rooney, who is suddenly paranoid that we're going to take it away, scoops it up and starts crunching dead Mickey's bones between his teeth. First of all, the last time B pulled something from Rooney's mouth, it was a pile of shit, so I'm pretty sure B wasn't sticking his hand anywhere near there. Second of all, as soon as we heard that horrible crunch, B dropped his head between his legs while I'm all "OH MY GAH THE HORROR. THE HORRORRRR. Um, are you going to puke?" And B's all "oh ... god ... it's just ... ehhhh ... I need a minute."
And after about two minutes, the mouse-eating incident was pretty much forgotten. What can you do about those crazy mouse-eating dogs, eh?
Later that night, B and I are in bed after a night that involved one too many martinis and far too many games of beer pong. But we're not just "in bed," we're dead-to-the-world, pillow-to-the-face, drooling-down-the-side-of-our-faces, not-gonna-be-pretty-tomorrow-morning asleep, when some time around 5 a.m. I hear a retching noise.
I've been a dog owner since I was a little kid, and I can say with utmost confidence that no good EVER comes from that retching noise. That sound can wrench me out of even the drunkest of slumbers in an instant. I respond the the sound of a dog puking the way that mothers respond to a crying baby in the middle of the night. I've been known to shoot out of bed to be at the scene of the crime before even fully regaining consciousness. It's a skill.
So I look over and Rooney is standing next to B's comatose body, getting ready to blow some serious chunks right next to his pillow. And then he does. B jumps out of bed to grab some paper towels and as he does, I take a closer look at the pile of puke. The room is still dark as night, but there is something in there that isn't normal.
And then it dawns on me. "OH MY GAH IT'S THE MOOOOOUUUUSEEEEEE. HOLY SHIT IT'S TOUCHING YOUR PILLOW. BURN THE PILLOW. BURN THE MATTRESS. THE MOUSE IS BAAAACK." And B's rocking back and forth hugging himself in the corner after disposing of the dirty paper towels because no way was I touching THAT shiz.
The next morning, upon closer inspection of the trash, it turns out it wasn't actually a mouse. Rather, it was a pouch of catnip in the shape of a mouse that Rooney had swallowed whole. And we don't even have a cat, people. So yea. That was awesome. If I had a dollar for every one of my stories that ended with a dog puking on my bed, I'd have, like, $19.50 right now. If only.Tweet