A Dog, a Bowl of Chili, and the 2° Midnight Tundra

Dictation from my phone in bed last night:

I lie in bed thoroughly agitated. It is 3:17 AM. Our normally predictable, calm little dog scratches endlessly on the sliding glass door. It all began two nights ago with a bowl of chili.

The previous night, I remembered noting to myself that our son had left a partially eaten bowl of chili on his desk in his room. I made the mental note in the kitchen before bedtime, lest our little dumpster diver wannabe should smell out a midnight snack. Distracted by the bedtime routine of showering, brushing, and flossing, I forgot to remove the attraction.

Lying in bed a few hours later half asleep, I heard a noise coming from my son’s room. It got me straight up. I walked in to find her short little back legs on the seat of his black rolling office chair and her short little front legs on top of his desk as she was just finishing his bowl of chili, chock full of beans, onions, garlic, and red chili powder. The skull and crossbones for a dog’s digestive system.

I settled Roxy down onto her oversized Costco tuffet and retired to our bed. At 4:30 in the morning, I awakened to the frantic sound of toenails tapping on the sliding glass door. This little long-bodied girl with a bladder like a tank and a rectum like a steel trap who never gets up in the night and rarely strays from her robotically predictable daily pattern of pottying was patiently yet oh-so-nervously hoping for someone to hear her in the dead of night, sounding the alarm to relieve herself. When my sleeping mind awakened to the fact that the glass-tapping downstairs wasn’t a strange part of a deep dream, I jumped up and raced to her aid. That’s when I remembered I was hearing sounds in my sleep for quite some time.

We hustled out the door into the night. She sniffed and walked in little circles over and over, never squatting in her usual fashion. She led me to one area of the yard and then another to no avail. Scurrying along in circular patterns and figure eights, we tried out what seemed like every square inch of grass. She would squat now and then, but nothing would come of it. Wanting something to materialize, we continued in hopes that we could tie up the night in a bow and go back to bed. But now my bladder was wide awake and yelling at me to run inside. If I did, I’d have to take the dog back out and keep trying with her. I had a feeling I wouldn’t make it at this point. I had already been hopping and squeezing and wincing. What the heck, it’s pitch-black out and I’m waiting for the dog, why not dodge having an accident. So there I was, squatting in the yard, thankful I hadn’t tried to make it back inside with a dog who wasn’t yet finished herself. I stood up in the blackness only to realize that the back of my robe had not splayed out, it had tucked under. It was soaked in urine and blowing into the back of my legs. Great.

In we went, and I placed the robe in the washer. That’s when it began to dawn on me. She didn’t have to go to the bathroom. This little sweetie, who to our humor jumps up alarmedly from her bed at the rare sensation of flatulence, was having gas all night, trying her best to hold it in, thinking she was about to have an accident every time. Poor thing! I gave her a good caress along her back and said goodnight to her a second time.

Two hours later, I awakened again to the sound of those toenails on the glass. Robeless, I raced down the stairs, threw a fleece blanket around my shoulders, and rushed her out in case this time those sensations were backed by something solid. They were, just a little bit. Our son heard the commotion when we returned, and he chimed in. It turns out he did the same thing with her hours before.

The morning dawned and passed uneventfully, at least in intestinal-tract terms, and it’s the middle of the night again. No actually, it’s close to 5 AM now. We have been at it for three hours straight. But this night has been different. We’ve been buffeted by freezing winds and a windchill factor of 2°. We are literally freezing as we walk around aimlessly each time.

I started out in the 3-o’clock hour with another squat of my own outside, not something I had imagined repeating but needing a quick release upon awakening and meandering too long in the elements, feeling the urgency of the rare soda I’d happened to drink before bedtime. This time around, I was quick to mind the back of my jacket.

Agitation began to set in after the first several rounds of clicking on the glass followed by frozen jaunts on the grass-turned-frozen-tundra. Is she playing me at this point? Is she reveling in the idea that I will respond to her at night if she asks me to? Is she wondering why she’s never tried this before? But Roxy has never been a manipulator. Why would she start now? (I never went back to the dictation.)

As the night wore on, she began having diarrhea outside and jittering and panting inside the house between potties. That’s when agitation switched to fear and Google searches. Was it toxicity due to allium consumption? Kidney failure? Each time we stepped out into the Arctic air, the pattern continued and the worry rose in me. Was this something that would only worsen? Was she going to be in danger? But that chili should be close to being out of her system, shouldn’t it? Would her body work it out or was the damage already done? Could her system be going downhill? Was the deep of night embellishing my emotional thoughts?

Finally, a last frozen session outside and she seemed to feel at ease. She laid down on her comfy tuffet inside and I spooned her, petting her head and back meaningfully. Her body was no longer shaky. Her vibe was no longer frenetic. She was at peace. I sank back into bed hoping my cold-as-cadaver hands and feet wouldn’t keep me up.

I awakened a half-hour into my morning alarm, game for sleeping until noon if I could. Roxy opened her eyes when I stirred and looked at me like it was any other morning. We went out to potty and it was as though nothing had ever happened the last two nights. Not interested in starting a habit, I saved mine for the bathroom this time. She has been snoozing peacefully in her basket beside the kitchen table, catching up on much-needed sleep as I click away at my laptop keys. I always have high expectations of my daily activities, but today I may lightheartedly laugh off my sleepiness and accept whatever form of quasi-productivity unfolds until nightfall.

May you revel in our little dose of tundra-life and perhaps enjoy a bowl of warm chili tonight.

Other Roxy stories:

Adopting a Dog: Our Story

No, No, No!!!!

We Watched Our Dog Almost Drown Today