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The Sock, The Dog & The Aftermath

At approximately 5pm Thursday March 19th an incident occurred.  
It was an error on my part, but also WTF? 

I was busy cooking dinner, chicken breasts with olive oil were on the stove. I was happily frying away when I went to flip a breast and a giant glob of boiling hot oil/chicken goo flew from my spatula and landed directly landed onto my socked foot. My foot began to feel the burn and I quickly pulled my sock off and threw it aside. Disaster averted. Or so I thought.

I continue to make dinner and the sock remains on the floor. As dinner is nearly done Apollo awakes from his nap, spots the sock and in turn has found himself a new toy. He picks up the sock and begins to play. I partake in this game for a few minutes letting him run and frolic with the sock. But dinner is nearly ready. Enough! 

I use my best authoritative voice and say, “Apollo! Come. Sit. Drop!” He stops his zoomies around the kitchen island and follows the first two commands beautifully. He came.  He sat. But he did not drop.  He looked me directly in the eye and said “Not today, Lady. This sock will be mine! HA HA HA! You shall not ever have this sock!!! EVEER! F*@k you!” And then he swallowed the sock. He fucking swallowed a sock whole. 


Okay, he really didn’t look me in the eyes and say those things. But I know that’s what he was thinking. And I actually didn’t see the sock swallowed but I wasn’t sure where it went. My first thought was, he fucking swallowed a sock… this crazy mother fucker! But how could that be? Clearly, I must be wrong, how could he just in one moment SWALLOW a sock? I search for this stupid sock, under the couch, on top of things (in case it was flung out of his mouth), everywhere. It is gone. It becomes evident that this crazy mother fucker did in fact swallow a whole fucking sock. 


Shit the chicken! It is still on the stove, don’t worry it isn’t burnt. I don’t have to deal with burnt chicken and a mental dog, just a mental dog. I remove the breasts from the heat. They can wait until later. 

The next obvious thing to do is go into my group chat with my ladies Amanda and Carla and tell them what has happened. Amanda can help, she is our health/animal guru of the crew. She offers up that perhaps I should give him peroxide to make him vomit. I immediately google this. One teaspoon for every ten pounds. No problem, I will give this a shot. Ten teaspoons for this hefty asshole gets measured out and poured down his throat, but some of it trickles down his chin and onto the floor. He retches, but nothing. I give it a few more minutes. Nothing. Maybe it is because of the lost peroxide down his dumb chin? I pour out a few more teaspoons and dump that down his throat. Nothing. I wait a bit longer… nothing. I google “how long does it take for a dog to barf after peroxide”… the answer up to twenty minutes. 

Tweny minutes comes and goes. It is apparent this dog is planning on keeping the sock. Everyone kind of agrees that this 100lbs of moron dog will likely just poop the sock out. He isn’t upset by the sock. In fact, I think he is pleased he won the game. He got the sock. 

The next morning I watch him outside, trying to see if the sock will come out his backside, but I see nothing. I text Gus from work later and ask him to monitor his poop (the dog’s not his own). Of course, I am sure that the 16 year old pretended to not read that and there was no monitoring of any bowel movements. 

Friday night there are lots of snacks and drinks. Apollo takes part in the snacks, he is in heaven. He is happy and being himself, I am convinced that the sock has passed. 

Saturday morning there is a definite odor to the dog. He is GASSY! PEW! I can barely stand to be around him when this gas escapes his rump. And then he barfs. GAWD. That smells too. But he goes outside and has a normal poop and is acting like a complete goof. Everything is seemingly normal. 

At 3:23am on Sunday morning I was awaken by the ever-dreaded sound of a dog heaving. I leapt from the bed, threw on my robe and unfortunately got lost in the dark. Where the fuck am I? While pulling on my robe I lost all sense of direction and had no idea where I was in the room. Finally I feel my way to the light switch… flick it and get the dog out of his bed. I herd him towards the door, but he is pretty insistent he would like to barf more in my room. I do successfully get him out of the room before he barfs further, but he does leave a trail of spew from the bathroom to the door. 

I push him out the door. I put on some boots and am waiting to see if the sock comes out. He quickly runs to the yard and begins a very loud stream of urine, then squats to take a…  Shit! I need to pee! I can’t stand here any longer to monitor, I must get to the bathroom. I quickly pee and then grab my phone. Too late. Apollo has opened the sliding door and is back in the house. Well, this won’t stop me. I use my phone for a flashlight and go to see if he has pooped the sock out in the yard. It is easier than I thought to find the poop. The ground is frozen and the fresh excrement is steamy. I look, nope no sock. But a normal BM. Hmmm. Maybe the barf was just because of the extra snacks on Friday night? Back to the house we go. 

I get in the bedroom and immediately begin to dry heave. THE SMELL… OH. MY. GOD. Imagine you are driving along a hot country road in July you need a bathroom; you see a park ahead with an outhouse… you stop at this outhouse. Damn it! They are spreading liquid manure in the field beside it, the outhouse has a 16-day old decaying skunk in it and the whole interior is covered in feces. That would smell like heaven compared to what I was smelling. Oh my god… I am definitely going to barf. I am retching and retching. I go to clean up the source of this god-awful smell…. THE SOCK!!!

Now this sock disappeared at 5pm on Thursday it is now 3:30am on Sunday. This sock was trapped in Apollo’s intestine for nearly three days. I don’t recommend smelling anything that has been trapped in his intestines to anyone. I could bottle that and make weapons of mass destruction.

I retch my way through the cleanup and dispose of the much anticipated sock. It was not a good night. Turns out I won the game of who gets the sock… fuck me. 

So the lesson here is, always wear protective footwear while cooking dinner.


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