Thursday, November 11, 2010

Phil Dunphy gave Pocket diarrhea and the heaves

Oh hi. (Burp) It's Pocket (sound of wind breaking) I have had a terrible start to the week. Phil Dunphy made me puke in bed and gave me diarrhea.

For those of you who don't know Phil Dunphy is the bumbling Dad on a wonderful documentary show we watch called Modern Family about three families who don't own a dog. (I mean really how come no one on TV owns a dog. A basset hound for House? A Life Alert dog for Charlie Sheen? Something.)

Now I like Phil Dunphy, bumbling Dad, because I have a bumbling Dad. I love TV shows when you see someone who reminds you of someone you know. Like every time I see Kim Kardashian on TV I think of Mom.

You may recall in one of my previous blogs I wrote about how Daddy tried to fix the smoke detector and put the batteries in wrong.. It made this loud piercing sound that went right through my little brain and made me run around the house like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man.

Well this week while we were watching our documentary this Phil Dunphy guy couldn't find the beeping smoke alarm in his house and the sound upset me terribly. While Mommy and Daddy were sitting in their chairs watching the TV I kept trying to get to higher ground by climbing on their heads. They would put me down, I would run to the other and scale Mt. Head. That show lasted forever.

Later that night Mommy's brother came over, and there was some spilled food, and I won't admit if I ate any or not, but by late Sunday things started to go nuclear rumbly in my tummy.

I started out by spitting out drool in our bed. Our bed! Where we sleep. Where our children come and play with their toy! I was very upset, Mommy does not like anything messing up her bed or her sleep time. In a related note Daddy is lonely and frustrated.

I kept coughing, but wasn't producing anything but a little spit. Daddy took me down stairs and tried to get me to take some water but I wasn't interested. He thought something might be stuck in my throat so he gave me a treat. You can see what is going to happen can't you? It's like it's got a big sign and is marching down Main Street.

Daddy brought me back to bed, put a towel down between him and Mommy, because that's where Foley and I sleep and because he isn't allowed close to her in bed, I believe Foley drew up a restraining order, and turned out the light, hoping to sleep.

Foley licked his hand for about ten minutes, trying to find anything good that he had touched while we were downstairs. Then Daddy rolled over, settled down, and heard me yak the treat all over the towel.

He got up with a sigh. Luckily I had done a good job of aiming and got it on the towel. He took me back downstairs. It was a dark, wet, howling night so he couldn't take me out. I vicked on the hardwood floor. He cleaned it up. I continued to cough like a Jewish man unable to swallow a bagel in a deli.

Before we went back to bed Daddy began to have tummy trouble of his own and I had to sit outside on the rug while he took care of his business. How rude! I went back to bed but woke Daddy up twice for some more hardwood relieving.

I really didn't feel good at all in the morning. I got a piece of kibble and spit it up. I wouldn't touch anything else. I dribbled from my back end and foamed from my front. I scared Mommy, Daddy, and even Foley very much.

Mommy wanted to see if my tummy would get better if it was running on empty, so I got no food, and slipped into my crate. Mommy expected to come home and find me in a messy crate but I was to keep everything together, even when I came downstairs and snuggled with Mommy.

But when Daddy got home I got excited and foamed all over myself again. Mommy made me a plate of rice but I wouldn't eat it, even when Daddy put it on his finger and tried to get me to lick it off. But I wasn't having any of that. Then Mommy added chicken and I couldn't resist despite my nuclear rumbly tummy.

Bur let me tell you that chicken and rice does miracles. By Tuesday I was back to my barking, running self, and by Wednesday I was my ball chasing, rump shaking Pocket Dog. So big props to that chicken, to Mommy for being patient with me while I soiled her bed and everything else in the house, to Daddy for staying up late with me and giving me scratches when I needed them, to Foley for snuggling with me when I was down, and for all my Tanner Brigade and Mom's Facebook friends who sent out so many caring words and so much love during my brief illness.

As for that Phil Dunphy guy who started all of this, if I ever run into you and your peeping smoke alarm, you are due five pounds of Yorkie hell.


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