PASS THE CHOCOLATES PLEASE!

PASS THE CHOCOLATES PLEASE!

The beautifully wrapped parcels looked so tempting sitting under the tree. The Christmas decorations, twinkling lights and heavenly aroma of pine, made us feel downright festive as we left the house to share some Christmas cheer with our neighbours.

Unbeknown to us there was someone else in our house equally intrigued by the gifts under the tree and the fabulous aromas wafting through the house. However, it wasn't the aroma of pine that was tempting him—it was something far more interesting, and deadly.

EDWARD, THE WORLDS' MOST ADORABLE WELSH CORGI, alone in his house, decided to throw caution to the wind and venture into forbidden territory—the living room! He approached the sparkling tree that seemed to have become such a focal point for the rest of the family, and delicately selected the two gifts that he felt certain had his name on them.

After opening both foil wrapped parcels with great care, he proceeded to ingest the contents of the boxes—exactly TWO POUNDS of a rather tasty assortment of my favourite English milk chocolate. He managed his task leaving only three tiny crumbs on the living room carpet.

When we arrived home several hours later, our attention was instantly drawn to the rather large pool of dark "mystery matter" in the centre of the family room carpet. Alas, poor Edward had tossed his cookies. "COOKIES? THOSE AREN'T COOKIES! THOSE ARE CHOCOLATES!" I shrieked. He had also done equal "tossing" on the master bedroom carpet. We were not amused. It was apparent by the original chocolate shapes we were observing, that the little beast had not even bothered to chew his delectable find. He just went into vacuum mode and inhaled it!

Three things instantly flashed through my mind:

1. It is 8:30 p.m., Sunday night. There wont be a carpet cleaner on this planet who will answer the phone.
2. Chocolate will NOT come out of the rug tomorrow, and I will have to re-carpet TWO rooms of my house . . . and . . .
3. Chocolate is poisonous to dogs.

OH COME ON! Don’t assume you already know me well enough to guess which one was the priority in my mind at that precise moment.

I instructed my husband to "CALL THE VET!"

I hit the Yellow Pages with a vengeance spurred on by total panic.

We both yelled at EDWARD—no longer THE WORLDS' MOST ADORABLE WELSH CORGI—and ordered him out onto the snow covered patio, where he sat very quietly, staring back at us through the sliding glass door.

God must have been watching the commotion below, considered the dreadful price of carpeting today, and taken pity on our predicament. The very first number I dialled produced a jolly sounding fellow named "Gordon." The man advised he had "just sat down with a nice tall gin and tonic," but said he would come out and try to rescue our carpets.

Our vet was just a few blocks away. There was no answer. We made contact with the 24 hour Animal Emergency Clinic twenty miles from home. The attendant who answered the phone said that because Edward had likely emptied his tummy of the chocolate, he was “probably okay.” To avoid aggravating the situation we were instructed not to let him have too much water. We were to expect him to be agitated during the night.

This diagnosis and lack of aggressive treatment concerned us somewhat, but we decided to do what we were told and wait and watch.

Gordon arrived, appropriately wreathed in Christmas cheer. He worked diligently on our carpets with a multitude of different potions. After a great deal of effort he succeeded in removing the majority of the huge stains. Spot removal was $75.00, and my ever-generous husband happily handed him a $25.00 tip. Off he went—home to his waiting gin and tonic.

Ten minutes later Edward upchucked on the family room carpet again! Without a moments hesitation I became mentally unstable. I announced, "THAT'S IT! I can't cope with this,” and stomped back to the neighbour’s to seek a sympathetic ear for my tale of woe, leaving my poor bewildered husband to face Gordon.

Once again, Edward found himself sitting on the snowy side of the sliding glass door.

Gordon returned.

The situation became even less amusing as the hours passed. Edward, now banished to the laundry room, had become very agitated. He was crying, and it was becoming obvious he was mad with thirst. I decided that I was not about to accept this non-treatment situation and called the vet again.

I got a new person on the phone who wasted no time at all telling me that my dog was suffering from "Theobromine toxicity" and only a very aggressive form of treatment would save him . . . and . . . that it would cost at the very least, $450.00 to cross their threshold.

We were off—EAGER to spend more money. Merry Christmas, ho ho ho!

By the time we reached the vet, Edward had lost bowel and bladder control and was so hyper he was actually trying to claw his way up the walls of the clinic. The severe dehydration concerned the veterinarians. The potential for seizures and heart attack was now very high.

We left the clinic in tears, wondering if we would ever see our beloved dog again.

We had a hard time sleeping that night. A phone call from the vet in the wee small hours of the morning woke us with a start. She told us they were having a very difficult time placing the IV catheters into Edward. In his frenzy he had managed to tear out five. Just to add to the drama and our worries, she announced the dog was losing an "unusual" amount of blood and was developing severe bruising. She felt he might have a clotting disorder known to affect Corgis, called von Willebrand's disease, and she wanted permission to take blood samples to send away for testing. They were now intubating via his jugular vein. He had stomach tubes to pump activated charcoal into him and catheters to replace the lost fluids. They could not give him enough sedation to settle him down without increasing the risk of heart attack. The prognosis was not good.

The following afternoon at one o'clock the drugs took effect and he began to relax. It was touch and go for three days.

It was a rather subdued, ragged little fellow that we took home. Large, shaved, sore looking patches on his legs and neck were a reminder of all the tubes. He was pathetic, but he was alive!

We paid the bills totalling $1,000.00, and fleetingly wondered how a less fortunate family, perhaps with little children and BIG Christmas bills, could ever manage to deal with this kind of a situation. The thought did not conjure up a story with a happy ending.

The Festive Season came and went. I am delighted to be able to report that Edward returned quickly to his old energetic self. We discovered, when telling our friends about our near disaster, that people do not realise that chocolate is toxic to dogs.

If you have a dog that means as much to your family as Edward means to us, beware! If you are thinking of giving a friend who is a dog owner a box of their favourite chocolate—don't keep it a secret, tell them to put the parcel up high, well out of reach of inquisitive canine noses, not under the tree!

By the way, if you think for one minute EDWARD, THE WORLDS' MOST ADORABLE WELSH CORGI has learned anything from this, he has . . . he has learned that he absolutely LOVES chocolate and he is now searching for it constantly!

MM