Deliciousness

Chewie is an idiot.

So is Phil.

To wit:

Chewie ate Tam's glasses the other night. Phil thought Chew was playing with one of her myriad, healthy, fun fun fun yummy doggy toys that don't cause emergency treks to the vet on weekend mornings,. Instead... Chewster was eating hip chick anteojos.

The "crunching" noise .. was not the teeth-on-nylabone sound that Phil thought it was. Oh, noooo. It was actually the glass (not plastic!) lense being crunched into bitsy bitsy bits, and then swallowed.

When Phil came closer than the fifteen feet away he'd been, from Chewie.. and saw the brown trapezoidal frames being twirled like a rope bone, he was sad. When one of the lenses wasn't IN said frame, he was sadder. But Phil still didn't think Chewie swallowed the frame! Indeed, Phil told Tamera that while her formerly cool-ass glasses appear to be nearing the end of their time on planet mother Earth... there's a lense lying around SOMEwhere, that Chewie apparently popped out! But she couldn't EAT an actual glass lense, could she? Tam says Yes! Phil says No!

And then, hours later, Chewie, seemingly happy and weird as ever... starts to gurgle and buck and wiggle and fritter and urp, urp, urp, bloop, bluhp, PUKE something right onto Tam's formerly soft cool comfy comforter. It's six inches of white foamn, with two somehow smooth pieces of glass inside -- smoothed edges! As if filed down by the poochie gods! -- that are quarter-sized.

It is, to be sure, two thirds of Tam's left lense.

The vet is called, the vet laughs, ha ha very hee hee funny vet vet stop laughing seriously wtf vet? Hunh? Funny?

Well she appears to be fine, the vet says, playing with a waggy tailed Chewie chew chew, who's trying to eat the vet's stethoscope. Wait -- do vet's have stethoscopes? I think they do. And IF they do, Chewie would surely try to eat it. Point is, Chewie's feeling fine.. the vet checks here and there, talks about the bad possibilities (torn organs! ripped insides! six years of braces! months & months of dog therapy, and blaming every car-and-cat-not-caught on her -- nodding at Me -- Owner (dammit!)) ... and then whisks her away for x-rays.

Tam and I fret. Well, not really. We read Dog Fancy and gave each other a Horse Quiz in Equestrian Cosmo. (Didn't realize there was such a magazine -- unreal! Tamara likes white horses. I like black horses. Odd but true fact!)

Then MK the vet calls us in, and we look at Chewie's 2 x-ray views. Here's what we saw (for real):

* Enough poop to build a small beach hut, "knockin' on the door, ready to come out! ha!" -- according to our HILARIOUS and now more-wealthy veterinarian;

* A 2 1/2 inch "tree seed" (????!!!!) -- which the funny funny rich rich vet "removed from Chewie's rectum. "Did it hurt when you removed the tree seed?" Phil asked. "No," said the Vet, setting down her copy of Kiplinger's Personal Finance and calling her broker. "Darn," said Phil.

* No glass. None whatsoever. "Maybe it passed through?" said the Rita Rudner of Bay Area vets. "You should keep your eye out when she poops -- if there's any blood, call us right away... and you can watch for glass. If you really want to know, you can get some gloves and look for the glass in her poop." I don't think, i think i said, we're gonna repair the glasses. I don't need the lense pieces OUT OF HER FREAKING POOP. Sweet geezus.

We are given meds -- 3 pills a day for five days -- and told to get "regular Pepcid." Chewie is happy. We go outside. She makes a huge poop. I don gloves, craft a small hut out of it, crawl inside and weep myself to sleep.

POSTSCRIPT: The next morning, I see Chewie chewing on her rope bone. But -- alas! -- she has fooled the villainous owner once again! Under the rope bone is Tamara's blackberry charger cord. It is chewed to bits, and off to the Radio Shack we go, Chewie pitter pattering happily, healthily along my left side.

Song of The Post: "Maximum Consumption" by The Kinks (runner up - "Girls Just Want to Have Lunch" by Weird Al Yankovic)