Murderous puppy, take #2

Mischa's in the hospital, a souvenir of the dialysis-line-chewing incident. He is expected to make a full recovery. Tierce is, of course, blithely unaware that he was almost the instrument of one of his people's death. He just knows that Mischa is gone and that I have been behaving very oddly lately.

It's like having the canine version of Gregory House, M.D. living with you.

My boyfriend is okay. Those of you who read my last entry will remember that I was a little concerned for his well-being, since Tierce chewed through his dialysis tube. Lovely morning, that.

This is typical for a puppy and, since neither of us caught him in the act, we can't give him the correction/beating/near-death-experience that our first inclinations were upon discovering the mangled plastic. He will, however, be confined to the crate upon our retiring to bed.

More on this later...

My Shiba tried to murder my boyfriend.

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."

"Fuck."

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.