My boyfriend, Mischa, is on dialysis. Long, sordid tale. Lately, we had been allowing Tierce to sleep with us on the bed. This, as the events of this morning proved, was a mistake.
At 4:30 AM, Mischa and I were awakened by his dialysis machine’s alarm.
“No. Oh, no,” he said.
“What?” I mumbled, struggling with the weight of a sleeping puppy that pinned the blankets down around me.
“Tierce chewed on the line.”
He immediately went downstairs and did a twin bag (for those of you uninitiated into the joys of terminal kidney failure, this means a bag of saline solution pumped out/into the abdominal cavity) to try and flush any bacteria out of his system. Then another. Right now he’s on his third and is snoring on the couch while I chronicle these events and wonder if he’s going to have to be helicoptered to the kidney care clinic in Victoria later this morning… or afternoon… or evening.
For those of you on the edges of your seats, yes Tierce is alive and well and unkicked/beaten/strangled.
Moral of the story: Crate your puppy at night.