Cautionary Dog has been pretty chill lately, so I decided to try and cut back on the anti-anxiety meds, one pill instead of two.
And that sentence alone should tell you precisely where this post is headed.
On Monday I came home for lunch and found my pack of birth control on CD’s bed, entirely chewed up. After a quick tally, I found that he’d eaten four of the placebo pills and three of the active pills. I called the vet, who said he should be fine, but that I should call poison control so they could analyze the active ingredients in my birth control and tell me decisively if he would be okay. When I asked for the number, they put me on hold, where I sat for five minutes until I worked myself into such a frenzy that I hung up and called the emergency vet. They said pretty much the same thing, but gave me the poison control number without making me wait for it while my dog’s life possibly hung in the balance.
I called poison control and found that they would like to charge me a $60 consultation fee, and could I give them my credit card number, please? I said something to the extent of HELL NO and called his regular vet back and asked if I could take him in just for observation, since I had to go back to work. They said, eh, I could, but then they’d call poison control and would charge me the same $60, plus another $60 for a vet visit. I asked, really, no one there knows of the effects of large doses of estrogen on a male dog? She put me on hold again, and when she got back said, yeah, he should be fine, but, haha, that really sucks for you, that he ate your birth control.
Because obviously the kind of person who leaves birth control sitting out for her dog to eat is precisely the kind of person WHO SHOULD BE TAKING HER BIRTH CONTROL AS CAREFULLY AS POSSIBLE.
I hung up and drove CD to Cautionary Husband’s apartment so that he could watch him and make sure he didn’t experience any vomiting or seizures or, I don’t know, grow breasts or start menstruating. CD, it turns out, was fine. And I put the remaining birth control in the nightstand drawer.
Yesterday I came home at lunch to find some pink smudges on CD’s ear. “What did you get into today?” I asked as I walked back to my bedroom, where the bulk of the damage seems to be occurring. There, on his bed, I found a chewed-up bottle of Benadryl that I’d left SITTING ON MY NIGHTSTAND because I’ve been using it as a post-spring-forward sleep-aid. Clearly, “childproof” does NOT mean the same thing as “dogproof,” since dogs have very sharp teeth and are willing to sink them into anything, even rigid bottles of plastic. Clearly, I am not smart enough to realize this.
The pink pills were scattered everywhere. I counted them as I picked them up: 76 left, from a bottle of 100. I calculated in my head that I’d taken roughly six or seven in the past week. Which means my 60-pound dog had taken enough diphenhydramine to put me to sleep for about three days.
This time I bypassed all the frantic phone calls and instead checked out the ASPCA poison control website, where I did not find diphenhydramine listed as a human medication that is poisonous to dogs. After a bit of Googling and a phone call to Cautionary Husband, we concluded that he would probably be fine. But I dropped him off at CH’s apartment for more observation, which consisted of CH waking CD up every hour to throw a ball at him and judge his reaction to it. CH said that CD pretty consistently made some attempt to get the ball, but that when he threw two balls at him, CD had no idea what to do. Which told me that my stupid, dopey dog was just fine.
Now, we’ve got to figure out what to do about his stupid, dopey mother.