Poor Gulliver had a hell of a rough day today. Around noon he started throwing up. I mean serious doubled over death knell deep in the belly barfing that sounded like someone was strangling a horse. Up came breakfast and a plate of grass the size of your fist. A couple minutes later - the same thing. This time last night's snack followed by a layer of the green lawn fur. The third time he went so deep I swear he had a couple of Jimmy Hoffa's molars and the remains to the Lindburgh baby - along with more grass. Poor dog. He was so sore and kept making sounds like a baby moose who lost its mother. Needless to say, I spent the day following the poor pup around with a bottle of clorox and a roll of paper towels like some pathetic valet trying to keep up with his sotted master after a drinking binge.
It wasn't until later in the day that the real culprit made an appearance in the final act. Sure, grass is enough to give a dog pause but there was something else going on. A hairball. Yeah, a dog with a hairball - go figure. He had a scratch on his paw that he licked so raw he'd swallowed enough fur to block his drainage just as sure as if it was a bathroom sink after a teenager primps for a dance.
I don't begrudge the poor dog when he needs help. Most of the time he's so low maintenance compared to all the human puppies in the house that we should be paying him for good behavior.
That is, except for the noise they make. But that's another story.
