Raw chicken causes rough evening

   This is for all those professors out there who think that students that are late for class are just lazy, hung-over, chronic over-sleepers and really bad liars.

   We could never possibly have a legitimate excuse for our tardiness—could we?

   Wednesday night I have class from 7:15 p.m.-10:05 p.m. I have about an hour of life before this class and decided to head home for a snack and some TV. As I walked into the kitchen, I noticed my roommate, Lindsey, chopping up some chicken — she was making homemade nuggets.

   "I forgot to buy oil, and eggs," Lindsey told me. "I'm heading to the store."

   She grabbed the platter of slimy, raw chicken and went to place it on top of the fridge.

   "Don't worry about it, you can just leave it on the counter," I said as I glanced at both of my dogs. "I'll be here to watch them, its fine."

   Lindsey left for the store, and I plopped down in front of the television to watch my favorite soap opera, General Hospital.

   Just as Dante Falconary discovered that his long time enemy Sonny Corinthos is really his father, my three-legged dog Westley hopped in front of the TV and made a strange sound.

   He was sucking air in his nose and licking his lips. He occasionally does this when he needs to throw up, so I got up to put him outside. As I entered the kitchen I glanced at the plate of chicken and it was all gone — four pounds of raw chicken was now in my dogs' stomach.

   I was instantly infuriated. This was not the first time this had happened.

   A few months ago Lindsey had chopped up the nuggets and didn't have any paper towels, so she set the plate on top of the microwave and left.

   When she returned, Westley had shattered the plate and ingested the raw meat. For three weeks he was shitting and puking all over the house. I was not looking forward to going through that ordeal again. I shoved the dog out the back door and went to call my mother.

   I was on the front porch screaming expletives into the phone, when Lindsey returned.

   "The fucking dog ate the chicken again! I cannot fucking deal with this shit! What am I supposed to do?"

   My mother suggested I call the emergency vet for advice. 

   The vet told me to give Westley six tablespoons of hydrogen peroxide all at once and take him for a quick walk to jostle up the food in his stomach.

  "This will make him throw up," the vet said.

   Of course we didn't have any peroxide and it was now 6:50 p.m.

    Lindsey and I went to the store and bought some peroxide, along with some more chicken. We both had to hold the dog while I poured the liquid down his throat.

   He instantly started to gag so I ran out the door with him. We walked around the block and he didn't puke. I called the vet again.

   "Hi, this is the chicken eater again. Sorry to bother you, but he hasn't puked. How long should it take?"

   The vet told me that if he hadn't puked in 15 minutes to repeat the process until he vomits.

   It was 7:15 p.m. by now and class had already started.
 

  I considered not even going. I returned home with Wes and as soon as I sat down in the kitchen he started heaving.

   I have never seen so much barf come out of one dog.

   I thought the first pile had the entire four pounds of chicken in it!

   But no, he stepped to the side and wretched some more — this time it was a slightly smaller pile of raw chicken and white foam.

   Lindsey was gagging in the corner — I thought she would vomit as well.

  Wes managed to hurl up a third pile which was mostly dog food and bile. 

   By this time our back door flew open, and my other dog Ann started barking uncontrollably.

   The upstairs dogs had pushed through the door and were running in and out of our house.

   Meanwhile I'm trying to clean up the puke with no paper towels!

   Lindsey is yelling at me to take a picture for my teacher and I started laughing hysterically.

   Our landlord Janet poked her head in to see what the commotion was and saw me picking up pounds of vomit with rubber gloves.

   "Wes got into some raw chicken and we have no paper towels!"

   She mentioned her dog had been pooping all day so she just bought an economy sized pack and offered me a roll.
 

  "Please, that would be wonderful," I said.

   After I cleaned up the three massive piles, I mopped the floor. It was 7:25 p.m. now.

   I started to pack my book bag for class when Wes started heaving again! 

   "That's it!  I am never making it to class!" Wes threw up two more small piles—each one had a single chunk of raw chicken in it.
 

  "Well I think it's all out now!" I shouted as I scooped up the barf and started to mop again.

   I finally managed to leave the house by 7:35 p.m. At least I will only be a half hour late, I thought.

   I drove to school and considered telling my teacher the long, elaborate story. As I walked into class I mouthed, "I'm sorry" to the professor.

   He seemed slightly annoyed, but I didn't really care.

   If he only knew how utterly irritated I had been for the last hour — scooping up four pounds of slimy raw chicken barf — maybe he would understand. But I decided not to tell him, he would just think I was crazy, and a really bad liar.