The time is five thirty pm.
Dinner is in the oven. Isaac and Hope are playing nicely. Noah is being Noah. Tara is chatting on instant message with Paige and Britt. Troy is working on an Excel spread sheet for accounting purposes. All is good in La Digue.
Suddenly, the peace of the moment ends.
Troy smells poop. He says "OOOOH Tara, look." (as if I need to see it) Then I say, "Well you found the poop, it is yours ... finders keepers, man."
Troy goes to find Peanut to let her know we are not so happy with her.
Troy yells from the kitchen. "Tara we have a problem." (I hear the fear in his voice.)
"Peanut was eating rat poison when I found her." "It is gone."
Utter panic ensues. We have no Syrup of Ipecac. (Bad move on our part.) Rhonda is called, she also has no syrup. We ask Britt and Paige (via Instant Message) to try and get a vet on the phone. We freak out and run around and beg God to give us the answer to get her to puke. (One of us freaks more than the other, but we are both freaking.)
While we wait we try to shove a spoon down her throat to get her to gag. Not so much. Dogs don't seem to have a gag reflex. Who knew?
Paige and Britt and the vets they have called all say to use Hydrogen Peroxide. The internet site we found says the same thing.
We are crying. (Okay, okay, Tara is crying, Troy is a man on a mission.) We get the dog to drink hydrogen peroxide.
Five minutes later there are four large piles of green, D-Con puke. Ten minutes later we are back in business.
Dinner is burned.
Our girls do not have to come home to a dead dog.
Things are good again.
Had Troy not been searching for the naughty dog who pooped, we never would have caught her eating the poision.
That is one lucky dog.
There is no moral to this story.