I don’t understand the expression “sick as
a dog.” I was sick as hell for Christmas, as well as the days before and after,
and my dogs were just fine. On more than one occasion, I had a hard time
getting to the toilet to vomit because I had a dog sitting on me. At one point,
I was laying face down on the couch and Bartleby had nested on the backs of my
legs. “Bartleby, I need to puke,” I told him. He was unaffected by this
revelation, and fortunately it was just water that I puked up into the air,
being pinned down by forty-five pounds of canine. The clear emesis went splat
on the carpet, and Saffron wasn’t far behind ready to lick up the mess. A day
later, I was sitting in a chair thinking I was just fine, having a conversation
with my parents, with Bartleby curled up in the chair with me. I was seized
with the sudden urge to upchuck, and Bartleby was again indifferent to the
announcement. I had to push him off of me, but it was too late. Exorcist pea
soup green projectile vomit spewed forth, not getting the chair, fortunately,
but getting all up in my hair and on the carpet. Saffron didn’t get to eat any
this time. My dad restrained him, spoiling all the Christmas fun.
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