I kissed a toad, and I think I liked it

Well, truth be told, Jetty kissed the toad, and I don't think he liked it at all.

So far, August has involved a lot more vet interaction than either my bank account or I like. Two weeks ago we noticed that Jetster's chest was bleeding from a puncture wound. I took him to the vet the next day, and she thinks he managed to impale himself on a stick (oh yes, he gets his gracefulness from me). The tissue surrounding the cut was too bruised to allow for stitches, so he was given a prescription for antibiotics, and I was told to clean the cut twice daily and make him wear a t-shirt to prevent dirt from getting into the cut. Generally I don't approve of canine clothing, but he did look awfully cute in his T. Opinions seemed to be evenly split on the t-shirt - poor GB was heckled mercilessly by a car load of teenagers when he took Jetty for his pre-bed spin around the block, but then he ran into a group of runners, and they oohed and aahed over the doggie "P.J.s".

We managed to get vet approval to head up to the cottage, based on our promise that he wouldn't go swimming or get the cut wet. We were enjoying a lovely week (no rain!) up north with my sisters, and the dogs were having a grand time running around, chasing chippies, and getting into mischief. The girls and I were getting ready to head out to the farmers' market when Jetty appeared on the deck, head covered in bubbles. He proceeded to puke repeatedly, all over the deck. Jenn helped me clean up and, assuming he must have stuck his head in a bucket of soapy water, I set off down to the dock to read the riot act to the boys. I told them off for not paying attention to the dogs while they were cleaning the dock furniture. Except then I noticed that there was an absence of buckets, bubbles, or work at the dock; everyone was chilling or swimming, and they had no idea what I was talking about.

Jetty continued throwing up and foaming at the mouth, so GB and I grabbed some towels, threw the poor boy into the car, and headed off to Parry Sound in search of a vet. Just as we were leaving, someone shouted that it was possible he'd eaten a toad, as there had been two on the dock earlier. We pealed into the parking lot of the first vet clinic we found, and rushed inside. They were fantastic. They took our information, called the vet who had just left and asked her to return, and sent us into an exam room right away. I adored the no-nonsense style of the vet. Her first question was "What's with the t-shirt?" I knew then that we were in good hands.

I mentioned to the vet that it was possible he'd eaten a toad, although my CSI-style analysis of his barf hadn't revealed any toads. She said generally a dog picks the toad up, the toad gets scared and releases its toxins, and then the dog releases the toad because the poison tastes so foul. It's too late by then, though, because the toxins are already in the dog's system. Nothing too much to worry about, a big injection of Benadryl in his butt and a long nap restored Jetty to his usual good humour.

Fingers crossed that September is quieter, less expensive, and has much less vet interaction.