On Puking

I threw up today.

Let me back up on that a bit. Actually, I didn't throw up today. I threw up about six weeks ago, but my idiot transcriptionist never seems to be able to find the time to post my thoughts on my blog. Good help is hard to find, you know?

We dogs are creatures of habit. We like it that way. And we hate it when anything interferes. Today (six weeks ago) things went south because someone failed to follow the routine. Let me explain.

This is how a typical day in Chihueyville is supposed to go down:

Every day I wake up when Nice Lady gets out of bed. I trot on into the living room, where Angel and I wait for her to give us our morning treats. Angel gets all excited and barks at her sometimes, but I know I can count on her. I wait patiently, and as soon as she's able, she comes over, sits on the couch, opens the bag of Pup-peroni, and gives us our share.

When she's done, she goes and wakes up Beard Face Man, who'd stay in bed until Armageddon if he had his druthers. But I guess he fears her or something so he does get out of bed. Angel and I wait for him because we know it's time for Pup-peroni # II. As soon as he's done, Angel runs into the bedroom and lies down in the bed there, and I get up on Beard's lap while he plays on the glowy box with the rattling keys thingy on the desk and drinks what he calls “coffee.” Then he puts me down, goes into the stinky room, takes off his fur, and pours water over himself. Then he comes back out, puts his fur on again and gets ready to leave for some place he calls “work.” Angel races back into the living room. Then it's Treat Time III. Beard leaves for work, whatever that is, and we go back to sleep. It's a tough life, but somebody's got to do it.

Anyhow, this morning (six weeks ago) Beard was slow. Way too slow. I decided to speed him up by barking at him. Now, understand that he's not used to my barking. And, since I don't really bark all that much, neither am I. I wound up with a scratchy throat. I still tried to eat my treat, but it came back up on me. I horfed, and that sucker flew out of my mouth along with a bunch of mucousy looking gunk. Naturally, that made both me and Angel hungry all over again and we raced to see who'd be the first to gobble that prize down, but Beard got their first with a paper towel and wiped it up.

Bastige.

In fairness, he did give me another treat, but it didn't go down as well as that pile of vomit would have.

People. They're so freaking clueless. You know?