Recipe for Disaster (31 page)

“Oh my god, poor pupper, what’s wrong? What happened?” I get down on my knees next to a clearly miserable Schatzi, who raises her head and then lets it flop back down.

“Well, this might have something to do with it.” Liam is standing in the doorway of the Kitchen Library.

I get up off the floor and walk over to see what he is looking at, and find that two of the five pans of rolls are on the floor. But they no longer contain rolls.

“Shit,” I say.

“Well yes, I do believe she’ll need to do a lot of that,” Liam says.

We walk back over to the dog. She makes a small noise, and then a smell that can only be described as monkey-house awful wafts up from her general area. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, please tell me that came out of the dog,” Liam says, covering his nose with his shirt. I smack his arm and go to grab my phone.

I put in a call to the emergency vet, just as Schatzi gets up, wobbles a bit, walks over to her empty food bowl, and vomits copiously and noisily into the bowl. This is both disgusting and impressive. Figures the dog would manage to not get a drop on the floor. Liam waves at me that he’s got it, picks up the bowl of soupy foaming dough and bile and heads for the bathroom with it, when the nurse finally answers.

“My dog ate two pans of raw bread dough.”

“How long ago?”

“I’m not really sure. She’s been alone with access for about five hours.”

“Hold for the doctor.” In a few seconds, the doctor comes to the phone. He has a kindly voice, very Mr. Rogers, and it immediately soothes me.

“Well, a naughty pup got into the bread dough, hmm? What kind of dog?”

“She’s a miniature schnauzer.”

“How is she behaving?”

“She has horrible gas, her stomach looks bloated, and she just threw up.”

“Was the vomiting difficult or easy?”

“How can you tell?”

“Did she struggle to get it out? Was there any gagging with no production? Was there a lot of volume? Did her breathing change after?”

“She didn’t appear to struggle at all, she just sort of leaned over and let it all out, and the volume was sort of shockingly large given her size.”

“That’s actually good, it means that she didn’t get any of the dough lodged in her throat. What is in the dough?”

“Um, flour, water, shortening, salt, yeast, butter . . .” I’m trying to remember the recipe.

“How much shortening and butter, would you say?”

“A lot. At least it seemed like sort of a lot.”

“Good, that’s good, the fat in the dough will mean that it will be slippery for her to get out. Is it a kneaded dough? Stiff?”

“No kneading at all, just sort of mixed together. It’s pretty soft, actually.”

“Okay, that’s great, a nice soft dough without a lot of structure is better. So here are our concerns. One, you don’t want the dough to block the esophagus, which usually would happen after vomiting or attempting to vomit, and now that your dog has vomited once without problems, we don’t have to worry so much about that part, which is great.”

“Okay. That’s good.”

“Based on how much you know she ate, what do you think is a rough percentage that she would have thrown up?”

Because this is the math everyone longs to do. “Not sure, probably somewhere between a third and a half maybe?”

Liam comes back into the kitchen with the now-clean bowl, places it down, and then picks up the water bowl and empties and refills it. Schatzi comes over to it and gives the new water three halfhearted laps, and then schlumps back down.

“Okay, okay, that is also good. The second problem is that the warm environment of the dog’s stomach can make the bread continue to rise for a bit until the stomach acid finally shuts it down. How far along in the rising process was your dough?”

“It was in the final rise.”

His voice sounds like he is smiling. “This is terrific, all good, so between the vomiting and the stage the dough was in, the rising is probably done. So the last thing we have to worry about is ethanol poisoning. The sugar in the dough will start to ferment, essentially making alcohol in the dog’s stomach, and if it makes too much, the dog can basically get alcohol poisoning, like a tiny little sorority sister.”

This makes me laugh despite myself.

“Good, I like that little joke myself. Here’s what I think we should do. Watch the dog closely for the next few hours. You can expect more vomiting, either mixed with or leading to diarrhea. The distension of her stomach will likely remain for a day, but shouldn’t continue to get bigger. She will probably have copious flatulence, which we want; it means the gasses are moving through her system, and nothing is blocked. She may begin to act, for lack of a better word, drunk. All of this is normal, and means the dough is working its way out. If she starts vomiting or having diarrhea in a manner that seems uncontrollable, and if she won’t take in any water, bring her in so that we can be sure she doesn’t get dehydrated. If her stomach continues to bloat and get bigger, or feels hard to the touch, bring her in. If her breathing appears labored, bring her in. I’m going to pass you back to my nurse, and she is going to take your information. I’ll give you a call to check up on her in about an hour. In the meantime, just don’t leave her alone. And if anything about her behavior scares you, just bring her on in. But I’m hopeful that we can let her work through this at home where she’s comfortable. Okay?”

“Okay, Doctor, thank you so much.”

I give his nurse my cell phone, and then fill Liam in. We decide that if the dog is going to explode from both ends, we’d better let her do it outside, so I take her water bowl while Liam gently picks her up, cradling her like the delicate thing she is, and we walk out to the front yard. There is a nice patch of shade and we put her down in it.

“I’m going to go grab her little bed,” Liam says, sprinting back into the house.

“Oh, Schatzi, I’m so, so sorry.” I can’t believe I left such a temptation right in her path.

Emily comes running outside. “My god, it’s all my fault, I went in to look at your beautiful rolls when Schatzi and I came back from our walk, and I must have left the door open, I’m so sorry!” She starts crying and petting the dog’s head.

“It’s okay, Emily, you didn’t do it on purpose.”

Jag comes out. “Liam told us, how is she doing?”

“Not good.”

“How are you?”

At this, I burst into tears. Jag takes me in his arms, murmuring to me that she’ll be fine, it will all be okay. He rocks me gently, and when I stop hiccuping he takes my face in his hands, wiping my cheeks with his thumbs. And then he leans in and kisses me very gently. It is the friendliest thing I can imagine, and I throw my arms around his neck. Over his shoulder I see Liam, standing in the doorway, watching us, with Schatzi’s bed in his arms, and an oddly uncomfortable look on his face.

He walks down the stairs, dropping the dog bed in the shade, and then pats Emily’s back. “She’ll be fine, lass, don’t you worry.” Emily begins to cry even harder, and throws herself into Liam’s arms, sobbing into his chest. He cradles her head in his hand, murmurs into her hair, and everything in my stomach clenches. I remember what that felt like, to be anchored there, to have a place to unload my anguish, and while I tell myself I just hate the idea of Liam having his hands on my sister, there is a part of me that doesn’t want to think about the fact that it might in fact be the reverse.

E
mily and I take turns all afternoon keeping Schatzi company in shifts, while the boys work, poking their heads out every once in a while to check the progress. She throws up and shits explosively all over the front half of the lawn, tastefully away from where we’re sitting, but unfortunately close to the street where passersby are understandably horrified. Talk about your dirty bombs; it’s a minefield of ghastly out there. At one point, she staggers around, clearly drunk, falling over her own feet, and wandering in circles, which despite her obvious discomfort, cracks us up. The vet calls every hour on the hour to check her progress, and by six thirty says that he is fairly certain she’s over the worst of it. He recommends no food at all till her stomach is back to normal and she hasn’t vomited in at least four hours, which hopefully will be tomorrow morning. Then I’m to start her on a diet of cooked chicken breast and white rice for at least two to three days to let her system fully recover.

At seven, Liam runs out to pick up some food for us. He returns forty minutes later with seventy pounds of Chinese food from Orange Garden. “I didn’t know what everyone liked. Plus none of us had lunch.” He shrugs, unpacking egg rolls, pot stickers, barbecue ribs, pork lo mein, vegetable fried rice, sesame chicken, beef and broccoli, ma po tofu, cashew chicken, shrimp with peapods and water chestnuts, combination chow fun, and mushroom egg foo young. White rice, plenty of sauces, and about forty-two fortune cookies. A six-pack of Tsingtao beer. “I asked them to cook up a couple orders of plain steamed chicken breast and got a couple extra pints of the white rice so the dog should be covered for the next few days.” This is such a touching gesture; it literally makes my heart stop.

“That is just the sweetest thing,” Emily says, looking up at him like he’s wearing a halo. And a thong.

“Thank you, Liam, that is most kind,” Jag says.

“Well, I figured we didn’t want this one cooking for her again anytime soon.” He tilts his head in my direction.

“Even I can’t argue with that,” I say, too moved by his kindness to be affected by his gibe.

Thankfully, it’s a beautiful night, balmy, hinting at the summer that is right around the corner. We set the spread out on the porch and sit on the steps, and armed only with chopsticks, we tackle the feast together, trading containers back and forth. We don’t talk much, focused on the hot food, the cold beer.

“Wait!” I jump up. “I almost forgot!” I run inside and up the stairs to the kitchen. I grab a plate off the counter, and scamper back downstairs. I burst through the front door with my prize, and place it reverently down on the top stair. “Ta-da!”

Liam and Jag look down at the plate of burnished golden rolls, and then at each other, and then at me. And then the four of us burst into laughter. What? I wasn’t going to let the whole thing have been in vain; besides, they just needed to be baked.

Jag, being a good husband, is the first one to reach for a roll when our hysterics subside. “This is really delicious. Good job.”

Emily picks one up and takes a small bite. “Yummy. So good, Anneke, really. Where’s that barbecued pork, I’m making a sandwich!”

Liam reaches over and eats half a roll in one bite. “Vry gud,” he says, still chewing.

I reach for one myself, the crust has a buttery crispness, the interior is tender. They have a simple goodness, and I completely understand why the family would have eaten them happily every night. I take Emily’s cue and layer a couple of pieces of crispy pork into mine. We finish all of the rolls, all of the beer, and about half of the feast before calling it quits. By the time we’re done, Schatzi hasn’t had an eruption in nearly two hours and is snoring loudly on her little bed.

“Okay, me first,” Liam says, grabbing a fortune cookie. He breaks it open and unfurls the little paper. “You are a constant surprise . . . between the sheets!” he says gleefully.

“Yep, as in ‘Surprise! I have no idea what to do with this little thing of mine!’” Jag says wickedly, as I make a loud snorting noise. Emily blushes beet red.

“Nice one, bro,” Liam says.

“BRRRRRRRAP.” Jag belches deeply in response. “What? It’s part of my culture, means we appreciate the food.”

We’re all clearly punchy. Jag grabs for a fortune cookie. “You have many people who love and respect you . . . between the sheets.”

“Great,” I say. “Who are these other people? Please at least tell me the multitudes of my competition are all women!”

We all laugh and Jag looks a bit sheepish.

“Your turn, lass,” Liam says, tossing Emily a cookie.

“Happiness is just beside you . . . between the sheets.” She looks sidelong at Liam. Sweet fancy Moses, the girl is so smitten her lust is coming off her like fumes.

“How about you?” Jag reaches over and hands me a packet.

I pull open the cellophane, and crack open the cookie. I look down at the paper in my hand. “There is a storm on the horizon, be careful how you weather it,” I say.

Liam smacks Jag on the arm. “Old Stormy over here, huh?” he says with what weirdly sounds like forced jocularity.

“Uh-oh. Maybe I should sleep somewhere else tonight, hmmm?” Emily says, stealing a glance at Liam.

“I think we all need a quiet, decent night’s sleep,” I say.

“Uh-oh, no storming for you tonight, mate,” Liam says to Jag.

“The honeymoon must be over,” Jag says with a fake sad face.

“If you two keep it up, I’m going to start to get paranoid that you’re falling in love.”

“Boy, one gay fiancé and she sees boy-on-boy action everywhere,” Liam says. “Don’t you worry, little Annamuk.” He throws his arm around Emily, whose jaw literally falls open. “I’m all about the ladies, as you well know. I won’t steal your handsome husband from you.”