Nigel’s Bladder
Monday, while I was at work, Nigel stole an entire loaf of bread I’d baked this past weekend (”April’s ‘Bread Wot Is Amazing,’” from ExtraVeganZa, if anyone cares) and ate between one-half and two-thirds of it. This unexpected influx of whole spelt and brown rice, predictably, made him sick. Thus, I wasn’t too upset when he strewed solid waste all over the carpet on Monday while I was gone, and then peed on the carpet as I was cleaning it up. I didn’t even mind too much when he peed again on the kitchen floor, which I’d just mopped about half an hour before. He was obviously feeling ill, spending much of the evening lying at the end of the futon looking bloated, so I cut him some slack and just took him outside several more times than usual.
Then, Tuesday morning, he peed again on the carpet, then threw up. Okay: I assumed he was still sick, so I cleaned up the mess, was about half an hour late for work, and spent most of the day worrying about him. Happily, when I got home, he seemed in much better spirits — until he peed on the futon. I thought that perhaps the self-inflicted stomachache had thrown off his system, so I swore, scolded in a disappointed fashion (this was the first time he’d done it in front of me), cleaned it up, and flipped the mattress. Again, we went out for more than our usual number of times this evening, and he seemed to be back to his perky self. He was playful, his appetite was back, and he generally wanted attention (and got it).
Then, approximately 1:50 this morning, I awoke to the soft pattering of urine on vintage carpet. The good thing about this is that, after cleaning up his fourth accident in less than 48 hours, I now had enough laundry to complete my second Nigel-caused load of laundry in two days (I normally do laundry about once a week; these two are completely Nigel-inspired). The bad news is that it’s now nearly 2:45 in the freakin’ morning, I’ve gotten approximately two and a half hours of sleep, and I have a dog blocked in the bathroom with his water and bedding, whining and scratching at the door to be let out. He was howling for a while there, which I’m sure delighted my neighbors.
I hate confining Nigel, but if I can’t trust him to hold it through the night, despite extra trips outside, he needs to be in a place that will allow easier cleanup than the soft furnishings in the main room. I’ve set up a temporary blocking thing that I hope will confine him to the kitchen while I’m at work during the day; at least he’ll have more room than in the bathroom, though I hope he won’t knock over the supplemental kitchen shelving during an escape attempt. If this doesn’t work, I suppose I’ll be investigating doggie diapers next, and buying a waterproof sheet for the futon.
I can’t find my extra earplugs, either. I guess I’ll stick my fingers in my ears when I try to go back to sleep.
(Sorry for any incoherencies or typos. I’m not at my best right now. There’s no really good time for your dog’s bladder to go off on an indigestion-inspired bout of unreliability, but now is probably one of the less favorable times I would’ve picked, even so.)
