Feeding & Nutrition

The sweet hit the floor at eleven. A party, a dropped wrapper, the blue one, sugar-free, the kind someone brings because they're watching their waist and not their dog, and Pip, my collie, was there before the wrapper settled, and I laughed, because a dog and a sweet is a small comedy, and I scooped it from her mouth thinking that was the end of it, the close call, the funny story, and it would have been, if I'd known what the blue wrapper meant, which I didn't, not then.

A friend said the word. Xylitol. Quiet, mid-conversation, the way you say something that changes the room, and I didn't know it, the sweetener, the sugar-free trick that's poison to a dog, the thing that drops their blood sugar and wrecks their liver, and the sweet on the floor was full of it, and she'd had a piece, a piece, a small blue piece, and the piece was the difference between a story and a vet, and the vet was closed, and the night was long, and the long night was the price of my ignorance, which is the worst kind, the kind you could have googled.

We went to the emergency clinic. The drive, the twenty-minute drive that felt like a year, the collie in the back, fine, too fine, because xylitol is slow, it waits, and the waiting is the cruelty of it, and the clinic was bright and the vet was calm and the calm was the thing I needed, and they took her, and the took her was the scariest kind, the professional kind, and I sat, and the sat was the worst part, the waiting room of a man who dropped a sweet and didn't know the word.

They pumped her. Charcoal, the black stuff, the stuff that means they're taking it seriously, and the sugar, the IV, the monitoring, the long night of numbers on a screen, and the numbers were the only language, and the language said she'd be okay, probably, and the probably was the best word I'd heard, and the heard was through a fog of guilt, the thick guilt of a person who laughed at the wrong moment, and the moment was the one I'd redo, the scoop, the laugh, the ignorance, all of it, redone with the word in my head.

She came home. Tired, the way you are after a hospital, the dog version of drained, and the drained was a relief, because the alternative was the clinic bed, and the bed was where she wasn't, and she was on my floor, and the floor was ours, and the ours was the win, and the win was thin, a narrow one, the kind that leaves a mark, and the mark is the label-reading, the ferocious label-reading, the one I do now, every sweet, every gum, every thing that says sugar-free, because sugar-free is the warning, not the virtue, and the virtue is the dog, alive.

I cleared the house. The sugar-free things, the mints, the gum, the wrappers, all of it, into a cupboard she can't reach, which is every cupboard, because a collie reaches most, but the high one, the one above the fridge, that one's hers-not, and the not is the rule, and the rule is the word, xylitol, on everything, and the everything is checked, and the checked is the habit, and the habit is the scar, the good scar, the one that keeps her alive, because a scar that teaches is the only scar worth having, and this one's on me, where I can see it, by the sweet drawer.

People think I'm odd now. The label-reader, the sweet-police, the man who asks what's in the gum before the dog's in the room, and the room is safer for it, and the safer is the point, and the point is a word, a blue wrapper, a night, a clinic, a collie who came home, and the home is where this ends, with me telling you, because you might drop one too, and the drop is fast, and the fast is the danger, and the danger has a name, and the name is xylitol, and the knowing is the only thing between the sweet and the vet, and the knowing is free, and the vet is not, and the collie is worth more than both, and she's on the floor, alive, because I learned the word, one night, too late for comfort, just in time for her.

I keep a bowl by the door now. The safe bowl, the one with nothing in it but the rule, the rule that the floor is not a buffet, and the buffet is the party, and the party is someone else's, and the someone is the guest who dropped the sweet, and the dropped is the lesson, the one I teach now, before the door opens, the no-sweets-near-the-dog rule, said once, kindly, to the guest who looks confused, and the confused is fine, because the confusion is cheaper than the clinic, and the clinic is the night I don't want again, the bright one, the waiting one, the one that taught me the word I now say first.

The word is the gift. Xylitol, the ugly word, the one I say at parties now, the way people say nut allergy, the way you warn before the harm, and the harm is real, and the real is the dog, and the dog is ours, and the ours is the duty, the boring duty of the label-reader, the sweet-police, the man who asks what's in the gum, and the gum is the trap, and the trap is sugar-free, and the free is the lie, and the lie is the liver, and the liver is the dog's, and the dog's is Pip, and Pip is home, because I learned the word, and the word is the wall between the sweet and the vet, and the wall is free, and the vet is not, and the difference is the long night I spent, the worth-it one, because she came home.