In the dark of the night, a noise pierced the depths of my sleeping mind. A heave. Another. Repeated tell-tale signs that the dog’s dinner was soon to make a reappearance.
The bedroom carpet couldn’t take many more such offerings if it was to continue to look and smell livable.
With a surge of Superwomanesque strength, I sprung out of bed, straddled the dog and wrapped both arms around her. If I could get her to the tiled bathroom, the cleanup would be much easier.
Shouldering the door open, I released her just in time to hear her spew her stomach contents onto the floor. Momentary relief filled me as I reached down to sooth her with a stroke on her side body.
It was then I noticed my dog’s fur felt smooth, she’d been much lighter than her sixty-five pounds, and worst of all, she had no legs.
The animal between my feet was a pillow.
Behind me, regurgitation sounds diminished as she ran out of content. My husband muttered something I couldn’t understand.
I spun to flip on the light switch and discovered him kneeling over the dog and the dog, head bowed, hunched over the pile of vomit.
She loped over to me, seeking the comfort she needed after such a distressful gastric event. Then she followed me around to supervise the cleanup.
A roll of paper towels and a trash can were my initial efforts. Hubba-luv followed up with a damp towel.
Meanwhile, I told him how the white pillow very much resembled our mostly white dog in the dead of night.
The excitement made it difficult to get back to sleep, but at least I knew where to find an extra pillow.