Napoleon was one sick puppy last night. It seems clear to me that he devoured something he shouldn’t have, much like a goat or a tiger shark. One day they’ll cut him open and find a license plate and a G.I. Joe. This week on “NAPOLEON, DON’T EAT IT” featured a pad wrapper, a cardboard tube, and stuffed animal stuffing. Past episodes have revolved around dropped chocolate, tissues fished out of the trash, and insects. This time I’m not sure what exactly he got into, but I should’ve known that anytime he’s not attaching himself like glue to the back of my leg, and he’s in another room and that other room is QUIET, he is getting into trouble. I heard him come out to the hallway and do that sort of constant licking thing that means that a visit from the vomit fairy is in short order. Sure enough, he vomited. And then vomited again. And then started to eat fuzz off of the carpet. I banished him to the porch, where he proceeded to eat dead leaves, moss, gnawed on the door frame and tried to snag a hair tie, and then vomited again. I took him outside to munch on some grass, and he grazed like a cow for fifteen minutes and even tried to strip leaves off of the ground cover, and when I brought him inside, he vomited again. He then ran over to his dish, devoured everything else that was inside, and then ran back out on to the porch and vomited twice more. I tried to lay down the law: NO MORE FOOD, SON, to which he responded by attempting to eat more carpet fuzz. My only recourse was to lock him in his cage with just his water dish. This made him very, VERY unhappy, and he howled his displeasure to the rafters, but he hasn’t vomited since.
Poor caged boy.