Chik-Fil-A Combo Meal: $1000.00

My husband and I found ourselves alone for dinner the other night, via a telephone conversation: he at the office and I, at home. Yes, we are in that phase, transferring into the Empty Nest. We are trying to do right by our marriage, trying to spend time together. But with wedding planning and other family health issues, we’re not talking fancy vacations; we’re talking small talk. Hey, I suggested, let’s meet at Chik-Fil-A. This is always a good plan. Further, John ventured, let’s look at a few possible chairs for the office. Date night!

Quickly, I gathered my things and got the dogs properly fed and situated. I say properly fed and situated, because Moose recently ate three quarters of a loaf of pumpkin bread. Happy Thanksgiving. I wasn’t having any of that nonsense again. So as I left, I cast my eyes about the kitchen for any would-be tempting bit o’ food, and found none.

The meal was standard Chik-Fil-A: good, up-lifting and pleasant.  The warmth of chicken sandwiches, the swarm of evening life, and the flow of conversation, all combined for a nice outing.

From there, we went to LaZy Boy to look at some chairs. We did not rush. We sat in chairs. We compared chairs. We looked at height and width and durability. As it was for the office, I left John calculating the details. I then called our daughter. You know, the one getting married. Hey, come look at these chairs. There was, after all, a sale. She eventually breezed in and we continued to browse the store, this time, in buying-for-home mode.  John studied his choices and we scanned our choices. In the end, none were perfect and we decided to head home.

So our daughter headed to the gas station and we headed back to our dogs. Recently, we placed our rescue dog, Scarlett, on Rimadyl. Since then, with joyous joints, homecoming has become even grander at our house. Oh yes. We walked through the door and joy abounded! We were so loved. Joy!

In that joy, I was reminded that it was time for Scarlett’s evening dose of Rimadyl. The joy crescendoed. The dogs view this act as treat time. I maneuvered through their tip tapping paws to open the Rimadyl bottle, along with Moose’s treats, only the Rimadyl bottle was not there. Oh, scatterbrained me. Where did I put it? There’s a certain strategy to positioning Scarlett’s Rimdyl bottle. I have a specific place for it. Yet I have found that when I put it there, I often don’t see it and then forget to give it to her. This does not bode well for her joints. Thus, sometimes, I move it into a more obvious spot. Thus, sometimes I forget where that obvious spot is. Hence, I found myself in the kitchen, looking for the obvious spot. Where did I put it? Hey, at least I remembered I was supposed to give her the Rimadyl. Now if I could only remember where I put it. In a moment of senior moment solidarity, John joined in the search. The dogs continued to prance in bewildered anticipation. Nothing. John then took Tactic B and walked into the great room, planning to distract the dogs while I continued the fruitless search.

I say fruitless. Because that’s when we discovered the search was fruitless. My ears detected a low exclamation from John. For the record, cursing was not involved. But it was, well, not a Christmassy exclamation. I turned my addled attention to him, only to find the entire child-proof bottle of 180 count Rimadyl on the floor, chewed to shreds, with no Rimadyl to be found. Anywhere. The dogs pranced. My stomach lurched.

John and me? Well, after 29 years of marriage, I can tell you we both have very different reactions to emergencies, which is a good thing. We sort of go together to complete the needs of the moment, in very different ways. I tend to morph into a chicken, whereas John tends to morph into a mastodon. As my stomach was lurching, I sprang into action. I re-gathered my purse and my keys as my mind registered that it was going to be a long night. Then I buzzed back to take out my contacts and retrieve my glasses (Sleepless Night Move #1), yelling that we needed to call the vet. I then started clucking out instructions to our daughter, newly arrived from the rather mundane activity of topping off her car with gas. John, very deliberately, knelt to gather the evidence. The dogs continued their tap dance.

Next, I grabbed a jacket and darted to the garage to get the leash, simultaneously buck-bucking the vet’s phone number to John, who concentrated on making very sure he dialed the right number. The dogs, by this time, were feverish with delight. They were due a treat! Mommy was excited! And, they were going for a walk?! Yelps ensued.

John’s conversation with the emergency vet went as expected, clear and orderly. John knew the drug, the dosage, and from his clear brain, he calculated the number of pills Moose had eaten. By the time he got off the phone with the vet, he could tell me, milligram per kilogram, exactly what kind of predicament Moose was in. The mother within me knew this approximately four minutes earlier, but recognized that the solution lay in the numbers.

Five minutes into the ordeal, we whirled out the door, leaving behind one concerned daughter and one very bewildered Scarlett. Moose, on the other hand, was having a great joy ride. John drove, carefully. And I sat like a chicken at sundown. Quiet. Really quiet.

In fact, speech ceased to be important to me. The Zone of Guilt and Prayer ensued. And I stayed in that zone for about forty eight hours (48). John, reliably, maintained his reliability. Meanwhile Moose, well, he entered into the Zone of, um, Unpleasant Experience, which is bad enough. But I knew enough to know that as bad as the experience was for him, it was about the numbers. The lab numbers. 

To shorten this Christmas tale of tail, we waited and watched those numbers, while Moose waited and watched um, other things. And God answered my prayer in the affirmative. He allowed us to dodge a bullet. One hundred (100) Rimadyl later, and Moose’s liver and kidneys, and indeed Moose, survived.

His lab numbers blessedly cooperated. The monetary numbers? Well, dang, that Chik-Fil-A  sandwich was worth about a thousand dollars  ($1000.00). One thousand smackaroos. And we thought Scarlett’s heartworm treatment made her a fine dog. Moose surpassed even her.

Moose is home with us now. His prognosis is good, but his tummy is a bit rumbly. And that place where they put the IV? You know, the place on his leg where they shaved him for the IV? Well, he’s licking it. Incessantly. He’s driving me wonderfully insane, as in stop-licking-your-leg-or-I’ll-kill-you insane.

During the night, in-between his frequent trips outside and his incessant licking, while I was lying on the couch, I had an idea. I know how to stop the licking. I think today, perhaps, I shall go to PetSmart and buy a Cone-of –Shame. My remaining question is: do they have one for humans, too?