Farley The Wonderdog part W, volume 7256

Don't let the smile fool ya, they're killers.

There is so much. I just don't even know where to start.

Some of this is so ironic. Even more so, my vet thinks I'm absurdly crazy and mean. He's brilliant like that.

Two days ago, Ricardo emails me a story about raisins and grapes being toxic to dogs. I read it, and kind of laughed in the face of death for Farley. First of all, I thought, "Too bad for those people that they don't have the dog who can defy all odds like our dog." Secondly, I thought, " Let's go try it out on Farley." And thirdly, I'd just been to giant grocery shopping day and purchased grapes, at SAM'S CLUB, so it was in bulk, and yougurt covered raisins on a whim. I take note, and go on with my day.

Wednesday, I get back from taking the kids to school and see that Max left his grapes on the table. Farley didn't touch them, and I'm shocked and grateful. I pick up the kids, we go to Julz (Holla!)'s house, and I'm telling her about the email for dogs and raisins, because she has a dog, and well, she's nuts, but loved. Aren't they all, these wacked out, enabled pets of ours?

When we got back, I saw that Max's lunch bag was on the floor open, with a raisin box out, and empty. Max was ticked because he was saving them for later. After I pressed our kid to tell me how much he'd eaten, so I could figure out how much was left for Farley to inhale, I realized, it's tiny kid serving of raisins. And the dog looks fine. I kept my eye on Farley and went on with the day.

Yesterday, I returned a call to the vet because he needs to tell me how to ween my dog off Prozac. It's not helping. I truly believe that nothing can help nor harm this dog. Not even Prozac. I call to talk to the doctor who isn't in, and tell them why I'm calling, leave a message, and by the way, I think my dog ate a small kiddie box of raisins, is there something I should watch for, he seems fine, but just in case.

"You REALLY need to bring him in and get his bloodwork drawn and tested."

Still kind of laughing, clearly, she doesn't know Farley, "Well, he's 120 pounds and he ate maybe 15 raisins. And I'm weening him off of Prozac. I'm trying to not be a hypochondriac here. I think he's fine."

"Ok, we strongly recommend that you bring him in."

I say fine, I'll do it. And rush to get in the shower before I talk myself out of it. The dog is fine. I'm not taking him in. We have a new strict regulation on this dog - we love him - he's ten years old and unless he's in pain, or due for shots, we're not bringing him in.

I pick up the kids from school and head to the gym. That's when our vet calls.

"I know you want to talk about weening Farley off the Prozac, but first, I have to ask you, did he eat raisins?"

I say yes, but it's no big deal, and that's when the vet tells me to get him in. I keep telling him, we've been watching him, he's fine. And we know that even if it's the raisins that kills this dog, there's nothing they can do. He assures me that it takes a few days for his kidneys to shut down, there will be a lot of barfing involved, and I DO have new carpet, and they WILL need to do something to keep him out of pain eventually. So, they need to know if he's in renal failure or not. Now, this guy knows me and my dog fairly well. He knows our kids, and he knows how we feel about this dog. So, I turn the effn car around and head back to get the stupid dog. Now I'm totally freaked out that my dog will die.

We take him in, I assure the vet that I do love my dog. He says he knows I do, and they take Farley to the back while I sit there with the kids, staring at the potential small and sterile room where they just might have to put him down. This isn't good enough. I get Farley back home, Doctor tells me he'll call me with the results and I take the kids to the gym.

I got Lucy ready for her swim class, and went straight to the steam room. I actually laid there waiting for the call, planning a brilliant death for this dog. To let him just be put down on a sterile table, would not do him justice. Maybe just like his name sake, we should hire him a hooker, and get him some serious dark chocolate. It'd be just like cocaine for him. I needed to call Outback for a steak, what else, he loves peanutbutter jars too.

The more I wait, the more I realize this dog is going to die. That the vet is dreading the call, and so, the more time it takes, the more I realize the dog's going to die. We have just a few more days with ol Farley and I better make the best of it.

Ricardo calls me when I'm getting Lucy dressed in the lockerroom and says the vet called. I hold my breath and ask what the results say.

"100% Normal Levels." That effn dog. Now I'm pissed, because he's not going to die, I TOLD YOU SO, and I missed my workout. When Doctor left the message he said, "It looks like Farley has beaten the odds....again." So, awesome vet, who I think might understand me, I keep TELLING you and you don't believe me! The next time something happens, I'm not calling. We'll just be on Doggie Death Watch.

Dogs his size aren't supposed to live more than 10-12 years. I'm guessing Farley will go to 20. I better go give him his Prozac.

That's how I roll.