$500 dollars to fix my dog. *dies*

All because he ate a bone and got sick.

Had a Darcyanna scare today. when she and Bebo came in from the back yard this morning, Darcy was drooling like the faucet. I checked the back yard for what she could have eaten and found an ancient 'Spray'n'Wash' stick and about had a heart attack. One vet visit later, it looks like she's going to be fine, but I still feel like locking her in a box and never letting her out again.

I do have some photos of her and Bebo's fun day out at Beluga point!

So, yesterday we found Darcy's owners and returned her and that, my friends, was all.

HAHAHAHA. Yeah, right.

Ok, so we did find her owners - very very concerned owners who had been frantically looking for her and her brother. There's another little boston lost out there, awwww -  and they picked her up, thanked us profusely, and left. Then, forty-five minutes later, they came back and told us they had planned on selling her anyway, because he was working  three jobs, she was working two, they had two other dogs, and three kids including a three year old who had recently figured out how to open doors. (Three guesses how the dogs escaped in the first place.) So, because we had taken her in and treated her well and obviously cared about her, they were going to let us have her.

For free.

With AKC papers.

Unspayed.

Up here, that's a fucking 1200-2000 dollar dog. Free.

Of course, that means I get to play mediator to the rug rats again today, but Bebo an Darcy have already warmed up enough they sleep together, so everything's gonna work out well.

Everyone knows I love my dog. Hell, some people claim I love him too much, and when I pull him close and call him 'furbaby' it hardly helps the situation. .

.. I'm going to kill him. String him up by his bouncy back legs and turn him into a pinata, I swear. He demanded to go to the bathroom this morning at like, 1:30 and right as he finished up his business and ran to the stairs he collapsed and started whimpering in pain. I, of course, freaked out. He couldn't take the stairs, so I - in my pajames, in the middle of the night, without shoes, hauled a sixty pound ball of whimpering dog up the ice and snow covered steps and brought him inside. Then, he couldn't walk on one leg, so I proceeded to wake up my Dad who's about as friendly as a starving bear when he doesn't get his beauty sleep to freak out about my wounded baby. He sent me to bed, so I slept curled up with my invalid all night, worrying about whether I should take him to the emergency vet, only to wake up the morning, give him tummy scritches, and have him roll over.

He has a scratch.

Yes.

A. Scratch. It's about three millimeter's wide and half and inch long, and this horrible wound had him hobbling around like he had a broken bone.

Yeah, pitbulls are scary mother fuckers, aren't they? Just don't SCRATCH them. They might bleed.

Oh, and no, it wasn't deep enough to bleed, either.

*strangles her angel*