We were incredibly blessed by some good friends to house sit for them this week. It gave us a break from the barrel, and them someone to watch their adorable dog Suka. I somehow managed to go the whole week without snapping a photo of this lovely ball of fluff, probably because towards the end of our stay we were a bit distracted.
At the beginning of the week we went to the market like any normal people would. We determined that buying a whole chicken to roast would be a great plan because we could eat it for dinner one night, and then have the left-overs for the rest of the week. We marinated it, left it over night, roasted it the next evening, Jake thought it was delicious, victory. We eat our food, leave the chicken on the stove to cool, and watch an episode of Monk. Half asleep I get up, brush my teeth (there are few people in the world who care about oral hygiene like my husband, so despite exhaustion I try to always do this, more for him than for myself); I go back to the kitchen to put the chicken away, and it appears to have already been put away, what a sweet husband I have to do this for me! I peacefully go to the amazingly comfy bed, and drift off into sleep.
The next morning as I'm frantically getting out the door for work, I remember my brilliant plan to bring salad with chicken for lunch. I go to the refrigerator. Nothing chicken like is to be seen anywhere. So I "lovingly" ask my senor what he put the chicken away in. He replies with, "what do you mean? You put it away." Irritated, not at him, just at the world I suppose, I look around again, so frustrated that we had allowed our brilliant chicken-left-over plan to be thwarted. When neither of us could find the chicken, we were a little concerned. Mostly about our sanity.
As I am looking around I see a half an onion tucked away in the corner on the floor, it looks exactly like the half an onion we placed inside the chicken before roasting it. All of the little pieces rushed together in both of our minds as we instantly looked at Suka. Realizing instantly what had happened our frustration switched to terror. A medium size dog consuming an entire roasted chicken, bones and all, could not be good. After extensive googling we were mortified that we had in fact allowed the slow process of death by chicken bones to be taking place for our friends dog. Our only comfort was that every post we read said that if the dog wasn't throwing up, or spewing from the other end, we were safe. I left for work, praying that she was fine. Later that night Jake got home before me and I received THE text ... Suka was spewing all over the apartment. I was terrified. After calling countless vets, no one with a clear answer, I finally called the owners best friend, somehow she must know what her friend would want us to do with her dog.
Much to our relief, this was not the first time Suka had done this. After a night or two of poor Suka whining a bit, and Jake using more paper towels and cleaner than one could imagine, Suka seemed to finally be better. And truly there was much rejoicing.
