“But he’s never ingested them before?” she asks.
“No. Never.”
“Have there been any stressors on him?” she inquires.
I frown, wondering if there’s something I missed. I’m usually so in tune with him. “I don’t think so.”
“You said you just came back from a trip,” she prods.
“For eight days to Mexico. It’s the—” And then it hits me like a ton of bricks. “It’s the longest I’ve ever been away from him. Most trips I’ve taken since we moved to Pittsburgh have only been for a few days… three at most.”
“That could be it,” she surmises. “But let’s talk about what this means.”
I listen attentively as she explains the foreign material is in his colon, which means it’s passed almost all the way through his digestive system. “It appears to be moving okay and not creating any blockages, but that doesn’t mean it won’t.”
“Do you have to operate?”
“No,” she replies quickly, her voice calm, which calms me. “Only if it doesn’t move on its own. What we’d normally do in this situation is put him on IV fluids to sort of help lubricate things and monitor him. I’d like to keep him overnight, and hopefully by tomorrow, he’ll pass whatever it is he ate.”
“But what if he’s in distress during the night? It’s why I don’t ever board him but rather have a sitter stay at the house. I don’t like the idea of him being alone in case something happens. We’ve been through way too much together, and I can’t put him in any type of situation—”
Abby rests a hand on my forearm. It’s light, without much weight, but it immediately settles me.
“I sound like a fucking fool, don’t I?” I grumble with a sheepish grin.
She squeezes and shakes her head before her hand falls away. “Not at all. You sound like a good dog dad to me. But you don’t need to worry. I live here… an apartment above the garage of Dr. Schoen’s house, so I’ll come check on Bubba. I don’t anticipate any problems, but if there are, I’ll call you.”
The huge gust of breath—pure relief—loosens the tightness in my chest. Jesus… when did I become such a pansy where my dog was concerned? Especially since he’s done stuff that has put his life in jeopardy more times than I can count and I never felt panicked like this.
“Want to see him?” she asks.
My eyebrows jet upward. “Can I?”
“Sure,” she replies. “We don’t have any other people in, and we’re getting ready to close up for the day. Christy’s settling Bubba into one of our super large kennels, so he’ll be very comfortable.”
I follow Abby through the swinging door to find myself in a large, open space with three examining tables in the center, glass cabinets filled with supplies, and stainless-steel countertops running underneath laden with laptops, microscopes, and other medical machines that do God knows what. Through a set of double swinging doors with glass panels, I see what looks like an operating room. It’s clean and bright and looks far more sophisticated than what I would’ve anticipated for a small country vet.
My eyes fall on a massive corner cage—four Bubbas could fit inside. He’s lying on a soft bed of towels with an IV taped to his shaved right front leg. Christy kneels next to him, murmuring soft words as she hangs the bag of saline solution.
Bubba sees me and raises his head, his tail thumping weakly. His eyes are glassy, and he looks stoned.
Exiting the cage, Christy motions. “Want to sit with him for a bit?”
I look back to Abby, but she’s at one of the counters typing on a laptop, perhaps updating Bubba’s chart.
The cage is large enough for me to crawl in and sit comfortably at his side. Bubba settles his head on my lap, thumps his tail twice, and closes his eyes with a deep sigh. Within seconds, he’s snoring.
“Will he sleep all night?” I ask no one in particular, but it’s Abby who answers.
She swivels on her stool. “Yeah, but I’ll come and walk him at least twice. He’ll need to pee with all that saline running through him. Hopefully, we’ll get a big poop out, too, with what I’m guessing is a stuffed animal.”
I shake my head, still amazed he’d eat it. Was the stress of me being gone what caused this? Did Julie not take good care of him? I mean, she’s nice and all, but I just met her a few months ago. Maybe I made a mistake not boarding him.
“I can see the wheels turning in your head,” Abby says thoughtfully. “Wondering what you did wrong.”
“That obvious?”
“Obvious enough. I’d say cut yourself a break.” She hops off the stool and crosses over to a set of large wire kennels on the far wall. Christy has disappeared. I stroke Bubba’s fur as I watch Abby feed the dogs and cats housed there. I like that she doesn’t mind doing the low-level work. I’ve always been impressed with people who don’t mind doing whatever it takes to get the job done.