By Thursday morning, Ted was really unwell, and as the bloods had come back clear for pancreatitis, it seemed like the only option was surgery. They all had another feel of his tummy, and said the lump was much closer to his out pipe than it had been the night before, so they'd push fluids through faster, and operate after consults if there was still no change. At lunchtime Ted seemed much brighter, the lump had shifted even further down, so they thought it would clear itself, if he was supported with fluids, antepsin (which he hates) cerenia (which is painful and makes him cry...for anyone elses dog who has to have this antiemetic, it hurts much less if given freezing cold) and pain meds. They then checked his bum again, and pulled out a few more bits of Pella, which seemed too small to have caused any problem, but were very sharp. Sam had been telling me that the boy was very gassy, and I just knew that at some point, he was going to explode, and some poor bugger was going to be caught in a hail of Pella shrapnel. In a way I hoped it was me, because I really didnt need a law suit being brought against me by some old lady who just happened to be standing too close to Ted, when he detonated. By late Thursday afternoon, nurses, vets and receptionists, were taking it in turns to try and persuade my little time bomb to eat, and by the time he came home, he'd eaten almost a whole can of tuna. So not only was he going to explode, and cause facial disfigurement to anyone caught up in the blast, but his victim/s were also going to be picking fish out of their wounds. He came home late Thursday evening, as it was thought he'd eat more at home, and that would push the obstruction through. By this point, I was ready to call in Dyno-Rod, or connect the hoover pipe to him, or roll him up like a tube of toothpaste and squeeze it out of him, but they promised Ted would soon no longer be a danger to the public. He fell asleep as soon as he got home,( in his very pink bandage, that the nurses had put I love you stickers on...aww) but woke up at about 11pm, and went out into the garden. I was following him around with a bloody torch, but he certainly wasn't enjoying his new found celebrity status, and hated being stalked around the garden. He did a few pee's, and I did a few sighs, followed by, ffs shit you little sod, and like the well trained, obedient boy that he isn't, he assumed the position, and did the dump of his life. I really didn't want to pick it up and have a look, but I knew I had to... not a single piece of dear old Pella to be found, just enough Madge fur to knit a pair of ear muffs for every Spinone in the UK.
What we think happened, was, he ate the cats leg, and that slowed his tummy down a bit, because he didn't eat the day he did that, then the next day he had chicken wings, which dehydrated his gut a bit more, then on Monday, I spent ages grooming Madge, and had a huge pile of her on the floor, which he obviously helped himself to, and that combination of events, turned the boy into Surrey's very own, weapon of mass destruction.
He's now safely defused, and slowly getting back to eating and being a pain in the bum.
The practice sent him a present, of a camouflaged Kong Wubba this morning, for being such a brave soldier, but within twenty minutes, it became a victim of a random act of Ted violence, and joined an ever growing list of missing in action casualties, I keep in the, must mend one day drawer.