Last week I had this great plan to report to you from the road because that’s where I was supposed to be … on the road. I do love a road trip. But, instead, I was in and out of the house all night Thursday and on into Friday with the worst case of diarrhea I’ve ever had. It actually started the previous Sunday night when I had to get T out of bed five times overnight. Neither of us was very cheery on Monday morning.
For you humans, who generally sleep near a bathroom, you don’t have far to travel when you wake in the night with the need to go. But, imagine me, waking up to an URGENT situation, having to get down off my couch, whine at both sides of the bed to rouse someone, wait for T to get out from under the covers and put her slippers on, climb the stairs to the main floor, wait for both doors to open, main and storm, and then find an appropriate spot away from the house. From start to finish about two hours! Or at least it felt that way. And then imagine doing that five times in one night. I was a wreck by morning on both occasions.
Things were still not 100% by Thursday but much improved so the peeps started making plans for a day trip to check out some campgrounds to the south of us. But then, around midnight, that all-too-familiar pressure started in my belly. Uh oh. And out I went, many times, and again the next morning and into the afternoon. All I’d eaten was broth for breakfast so I have no idea what went into the creation of the nastiness of the afternoon. But, anyway, this is all verging on too much information.
I’ve normally got a pretty sturdy constitution. I eat lots of strange things I find in my travels, as I wrote about in The World is My Buffet in March, and rarely have any digestive response. T refers to it as my little iron stomach. Not to say I haven’t ever had issues, but normally only when we’re travelling out of country, like back on our first RV trip when Logan drank from that pool of standing water in Utah. Yeah, that was a big mistake, for both of us as it turned out since whatever he picked up transferred to me.
You know, I think that was the only other time I had to go outside multiple times in a night, and that was almost nine years ago with a lot of questionable ingestion since.
Anyway, we’re pretty sure what got me was an overdose of probiotic. You’ve heard the expression “too much of a good thing?” Well, that’s what happens when a dog eats a bunch of horse probiotic. In an appropriate dosage, a probiotic is a great thing, but the wrong amount for the wrong animal is, I’ve discovered, less than ideal.
Nevada is a bit of a feed dribbler as his teeth wear down with age, and that fateful Sunday, he dropped quite a bunch of feed. T always lets me clean up whatever lands on the ground as it’s normally just a few bits of kibble, but, on that day, the old guy spit out quite a lot, and we think there was a big wad of his probiotic in the stuff that hit the ground. Until Thursday night, it was only a theory. That was when T decided it was time to put me back on my own probiotic at dinnertime. Oh boy, was that the match in the powder barrel, launching me into another twenty-four hours of … well … the shits.
After a week of purging and a mostly-liquid diet, by Sunday I looked like a dishrag on a leash when we went for a walk around the park in Strathmore. That lake has never seemed so big! I’m mostly back to normal energy levels now. It just took a few days for me to get my strength back.
In case you’re wondering about the remedy, it was that age-old cure, chicken soup, mostly broth with a little bit of cooked vegetables and a few pieces of chicken to make it interesting. The general recommendation for dogs with diarrhea is chicken and rice, a bland diet, but since I normally don’t eat grain, T didn’t think it was the time to introduce a new thing. She fed me nothing but soup for two days and my tummy troubles vanished.
Sadly, there was no road trip, but I hear we might be going camping next week for T’s birthday. Toes crossed and stomach fortified!