Shoot Me!

Jethro has had guts issues for most of the week.

I’ve been awakened the last few nights, usually twice, by the very unique “I’m gonna shit my pants” whine, followed by a more anxious bark.

He’s such a good dude. Does NOT want to go in the house. So I get up, grab for some shoes, stumble to the door to let him out. He shoots out and vanishes into the dark to do his business. Usually to the most remote corner of our property.

A few minutes later, he trots back, grabs a drink of water and goes back inside.

Later.Rinse.Repeat. If I’m lucky, it won’t happen. If I’m unlucky, 2 times more.

As I type this, he’s snoozing outside my office door as I prep for my week.

And he has gas.

Baaaaad Dog gas.

To say it smells like ass doesn’t do it justice. It smells like composting death. Something is rotten in that boy’s guts.

That’s the kid of smell I’d happy crop-dust a group of dudes with. The kind that would run them out of the car. Hell, I usually appreciate that sort of thing. Can’t let the entertainment value away just because you have gas. Hell, I’d pay money to drop a bomb like that as I was leaving an elevator, listening to the screams of the wretched as the doors shut.

But right at the moment, it, along with the godawful stink, is the stench of burning Benjamins I’m going to smell if I can get him into the vet tomorrow. 2-3 hundred, at least. I’ve been there before.

I know when it happened.

On a walk this week, he scarfed some dead animal and gulped it down before I caught him. That or it’s the small piece of chiggin I gave him as a treat, like an idiot. No idea. It’s not the same as the infection he had last time. He’s pretty much acting normal, running and playing. What’s different this time is he’s not eating, or not eating much.

Nicht Gut. Not at all.

We’ll see tomorrow. I really wish I could call and say Jethro is crapping his pants again, can I get some antibiotics?