(Contains mild vomiting)*
Few things in life are less funny than being puked on by a carsick Rottweiler.
Well, realistically, lots of things are less funny. War, famine.....that sort of thing. But on a very basic, visceral level, being bathed in stomach-warm, half digested dog biscuits is pretty much no fun at all.
Filthy's appearance belied his delicate nature. Nine and a half stone of prime male Rotty, he was master of all he surveyed. He was also the softest, most loyal teddy bear of a dog I ever did meet, and although I lost him five years ago I still miss him. The stomach thing though - that got old really, really quickly. We first realised there might be a problem when he was a couple of months old. We took the dogs to Dunwich for a rainy afternoon's stamp along the beach. The labrador was fine. Filthy, however, did the sink-plunger noise all the way, starting a couple of hundred yards from the house and finishing only when the boot lid was lifted on arrival to reveal a small dishevelled puppy covered in breakfast. We presumed he'd grow out of it. He didn't. And believe me, we tried everything. Anti-emetics. Starvation. Hydration. Soothing music (does Motorhead count?). And none of it worked.
In the end, we decided to try varying his position in the car. We figured that maybe travelling in the boot wasn't agreeing with him. Maybe it was the going-backwards thing. Or maybe going-forwards. Or sideways (on sharp bends). Whichever. A plan was hatched which was guaranteed to succeed. I sat in the front passenger seat, my lap shrouded in a split-open black bin liner (in case of emergency, you understand). I (optimistically) held an empty ice-cream tub, filled with cool, refreshing water (we were hanging pretty much everything on the dehydration thing) to soothe a troubled tummy. Filthy was wedged between my plastic-clad knees, his massive head in my lap, and we set off.
It went swimmingly. For the first two miles. I gently stroked Filthy's muzzle and he lapped at the cool water in the ice cream tub. The Ex and I exchanged slightly smug smiles, confident in our dog-stomach-whispering abilities. The countryside glided past the slightly-open window in a scene of pastoral contentment. And then it began. A sort of whomping, sucking noise. Filthy's sides contracted and then began to expand like Oprah Winfrey's stomach at a soul-food restaurant. Enormous, guttural belches rent the air. I glanced at my bin-bag-shrouded knees and offered up a silent prayer to the gods of upholstery (St. DFS? St. Scotchguard?). It was all in vain. A revoltingly warm cascade of soggy dog biscuits filled my lap, even as I tried pointlessly to catch the flow in a (now pathetically inadequate) ice cream tub. I glanced at Filthy. His eyes fixed mine in silent, apologetic embarassment, as he hurled everything he had ever eaten ever into my lap. Poor dog. And poor me, pathetically mopping myself down by the roadside, dreading the journey home (don't ask).
So. Puke holds pretty much no fear for me. Which is a good thing really, as Small Person staged a dramatic re-enactment of the above episode in the car on Saturday. Preceded with the frantic words "Mummy! I feel like I'm going to be sick!", we hurtled helplessly down the fast lane of the A12 at a hundred miles an hour as she vomited about a ton of chicken nuggets (cooked by her father) into her lap. The horror. It took me half an hour and twelve baby wipes to even begin to sort the car out, and the Other Half still won't sit in the "Pukey Seat".
There's probably a moral to this story. I'm buggered if I know what it might be. Oh...hang on!! Don't read other people's blogs while you're eating your tea.
Sorry.
* Homage.
Well, realistically, lots of things are less funny. War, famine.....that sort of thing. But on a very basic, visceral level, being bathed in stomach-warm, half digested dog biscuits is pretty much no fun at all.
Filthy's appearance belied his delicate nature. Nine and a half stone of prime male Rotty, he was master of all he surveyed. He was also the softest, most loyal teddy bear of a dog I ever did meet, and although I lost him five years ago I still miss him. The stomach thing though - that got old really, really quickly. We first realised there might be a problem when he was a couple of months old. We took the dogs to Dunwich for a rainy afternoon's stamp along the beach. The labrador was fine. Filthy, however, did the sink-plunger noise all the way, starting a couple of hundred yards from the house and finishing only when the boot lid was lifted on arrival to reveal a small dishevelled puppy covered in breakfast. We presumed he'd grow out of it. He didn't. And believe me, we tried everything. Anti-emetics. Starvation. Hydration. Soothing music (does Motorhead count?). And none of it worked.
In the end, we decided to try varying his position in the car. We figured that maybe travelling in the boot wasn't agreeing with him. Maybe it was the going-backwards thing. Or maybe going-forwards. Or sideways (on sharp bends). Whichever. A plan was hatched which was guaranteed to succeed. I sat in the front passenger seat, my lap shrouded in a split-open black bin liner (in case of emergency, you understand). I (optimistically) held an empty ice-cream tub, filled with cool, refreshing water (we were hanging pretty much everything on the dehydration thing) to soothe a troubled tummy. Filthy was wedged between my plastic-clad knees, his massive head in my lap, and we set off.
It went swimmingly. For the first two miles. I gently stroked Filthy's muzzle and he lapped at the cool water in the ice cream tub. The Ex and I exchanged slightly smug smiles, confident in our dog-stomach-whispering abilities. The countryside glided past the slightly-open window in a scene of pastoral contentment. And then it began. A sort of whomping, sucking noise. Filthy's sides contracted and then began to expand like Oprah Winfrey's stomach at a soul-food restaurant. Enormous, guttural belches rent the air. I glanced at my bin-bag-shrouded knees and offered up a silent prayer to the gods of upholstery (St. DFS? St. Scotchguard?). It was all in vain. A revoltingly warm cascade of soggy dog biscuits filled my lap, even as I tried pointlessly to catch the flow in a (now pathetically inadequate) ice cream tub. I glanced at Filthy. His eyes fixed mine in silent, apologetic embarassment, as he hurled everything he had ever eaten ever into my lap. Poor dog. And poor me, pathetically mopping myself down by the roadside, dreading the journey home (don't ask).
So. Puke holds pretty much no fear for me. Which is a good thing really, as Small Person staged a dramatic re-enactment of the above episode in the car on Saturday. Preceded with the frantic words "Mummy! I feel like I'm going to be sick!", we hurtled helplessly down the fast lane of the A12 at a hundred miles an hour as she vomited about a ton of chicken nuggets (cooked by her father) into her lap. The horror. It took me half an hour and twelve baby wipes to even begin to sort the car out, and the Other Half still won't sit in the "Pukey Seat".
There's probably a moral to this story. I'm buggered if I know what it might be. Oh...hang on!! Don't read other people's blogs while you're eating your tea.
Sorry.
* Homage.
posted by surly girl at 7:52 pm
14 Comments:
Puke, vomit, sick - the taste and the smell, it stays in the memory a very long time.
So you think because you enjoy blogging you should give it up. Are you a catholic or what. And Surl, I'd be honoured to link to your blog.
Oh sure.
I can't discuss cat pee, but dog puke is okay?
Double standard....
I've a dog that can't travel in a vehicle for any period of time without hurling her tummy contents out on me. It's...disgusting really. We did try some dramamine (used for human motion sickness) to see if that helped. Marginally. She was so bombed that it really didn't seem fair to her.
We still have her. We just don't take her anywhere.
We sold a car once because I puked in it and no-one would ever sit in the back again........
Our old dog always headed straight for the driver's window, almost strangling me in the process.
Maybe she was feeling a little sick and wanted some air.
A friend of mine left a job and celebrated with far too much Vodka, 20 at last count. I collected her in her own car and she proceed to fill the passenger footwell with vomit. By the time she'd finished she was wading in it !
Suffice to say the car never smelt the same, a combination of puke, bleach and awful car air freshener...didn't help when it came to selling the otherwise classic 1978 Vauxhall Chevette.
I suffer from extreme travel sickness. Cars, trains (going backwards), buses, planes, and, oh God, especially boats.
I'm OK if I drive though. Possibly won't work for dogs.
Or small children.
wow. that's really foul.
Though, i've never worn dog-vomit, i'm extremely experienced at cleaning it up.
The trick is plastic grocery bags. Fascinating, eh?
Regrets of my life No.1.
When I was 18 I finally plucked up the courage to ask out a girl who I had had a crush on since junior school. Amazingly she said yes. She picked me up in her little pink Mini and on the way home I puked up in that kind of storage pocket that they had on the door. She was cool about it but I just died on my arse. I never dared phone her again.
poor old tom.
i've never been sick in a car (that i remember), but i threw up on a coach trip to spain once. pretty close quarters to be sharing with a person honking inelegantly into a paper bag. poor old hayley rogers. she got me back though - she made me learn to smoke halfway through the first week.
Gives a whole new meaning to the command "Sic him, boy!" :-)
poor pooch, poor small person. I get motion sick too. not fun.
LOL. You are so funny.
We stopped taking our dog anywhere quite soon after acquiring him. some years later he seems to have got over the car sickness thing...I don't know how we found this out though.
Hope small person felt better afterwards or it would have been a wasted puke.
Ye gods. I'm just going to try and forget I ever read this post. Twice. *staggers off shuddering*
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