I work from home most Mondays. You would think that this would all but eliminate the unpleasantness typically associated with the end of the weekend. Not today.
Up bright and early this morning, I headed out to do some gardening before I started working. I usually love this part of my day.
I had Fletcher out in the yard with me because he also loves this part of the day. We hadn't been outside for three minutes when I saw him sneaking around the side of the house looking suspicious - a clear indicator that he is about to eat something he shouldn't. If there is any type of plant that could possibly be dangerous to a dog you can bet that a) Fletcher is going to find and eat it, and b) it is going to make him very sick.
Thus I head over to the side yard to see what he's doing. And he immediately starts sprinting away from me. I should note, our backyard is very large and Fletcher is a crazy-fast runner so I know better than to chase him. Instead, I pick up a leaf and start walking toward him very slowly pretending like it's a treat and coaxing him to drop whatever is in his mouth. This strategy is about fifty percent effective about fifty percent of the time. Probably because my dog is not an idiot. So of course he tears away from me and does two laps around the yard like a Derby horse, all the while, the foreign object of doom is still in his mouth.
Long story short, after trying the treat-that-is-actually-a-leaf-trick three more times, it finally works. Probably because he's just so tired at this point. I grab his mouth and reach in to remove the poisonous plant. Except, it's a dead bird. In my bare hand. And I can't put it down because that will start this whole process over again. So I have to carry a DEAD BIRD back up to the house IN MY BARE HAND and put it in a plastic bag.
Now, I still had to water the plants. While Fletcher was following me around trying to lick me with his dead bird tongue. Also, it was already eighty-nine degrees at this point.
Near the end of my watering (while I was stomping around in a huff), I managed to knock one of my marigold pots over, spilling dirt and plants on the patio. I threw the hose down and picked up the plant and swept the dirt back in pot. As I was rearranging the plants in the pot, I noticed that there was a large clot of potting soil, so I reached down to break it up. As soon as I got my fingers around it, my brain registered that it was not, in fact, a clot of dirt.
It was a toad the size of my fist.
I have never dropped anything so quickly. Somehow, Hugh did not understand how this incident justified the very loud scream that brought him and Fletcher running to my aid. I'm sorry, but what is the confusion?
And then I went inside. And it was only 9:00am. Happy Monday.
Up bright and early this morning, I headed out to do some gardening before I started working. I usually love this part of my day.
I had Fletcher out in the yard with me because he also loves this part of the day. We hadn't been outside for three minutes when I saw him sneaking around the side of the house looking suspicious - a clear indicator that he is about to eat something he shouldn't. If there is any type of plant that could possibly be dangerous to a dog you can bet that a) Fletcher is going to find and eat it, and b) it is going to make him very sick.
Thus I head over to the side yard to see what he's doing. And he immediately starts sprinting away from me. I should note, our backyard is very large and Fletcher is a crazy-fast runner so I know better than to chase him. Instead, I pick up a leaf and start walking toward him very slowly pretending like it's a treat and coaxing him to drop whatever is in his mouth. This strategy is about fifty percent effective about fifty percent of the time. Probably because my dog is not an idiot. So of course he tears away from me and does two laps around the yard like a Derby horse, all the while, the foreign object of doom is still in his mouth.
Long story short, after trying the treat-that-is-actually-a-leaf-trick three more times, it finally works. Probably because he's just so tired at this point. I grab his mouth and reach in to remove the poisonous plant. Except, it's a dead bird. In my bare hand. And I can't put it down because that will start this whole process over again. So I have to carry a DEAD BIRD back up to the house IN MY BARE HAND and put it in a plastic bag.
Now, I still had to water the plants. While Fletcher was following me around trying to lick me with his dead bird tongue. Also, it was already eighty-nine degrees at this point.
Near the end of my watering (while I was stomping around in a huff), I managed to knock one of my marigold pots over, spilling dirt and plants on the patio. I threw the hose down and picked up the plant and swept the dirt back in pot. As I was rearranging the plants in the pot, I noticed that there was a large clot of potting soil, so I reached down to break it up. As soon as I got my fingers around it, my brain registered that it was not, in fact, a clot of dirt.
It was a toad the size of my fist.
I have never dropped anything so quickly. Somehow, Hugh did not understand how this incident justified the very loud scream that brought him and Fletcher running to my aid. I'm sorry, but what is the confusion?
And then I went inside. And it was only 9:00am. Happy Monday.
Oh lawd, what a morning! Sounds like something that would happen to me, my dog eating a dead bird (actually that did happen with one my cats in high school) and me thinking a toad was dirt. Sorry you had a rough start today!
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