Tales of a Disowned Dog

Our second pug, Coal, was supposed to be my wife's dog...but for reasons outside his control, that association passed many years ago.

For all intents and purposes, Coal is Charley's dog--Charley being the pug from my bachelor days. As long as a I can remember, I knew one day I would own a blond haired, squished face, lap-loving pug named Charley, spelled L-E-Y not L-I-E, thank you very much. After Sara and I married, the rigors of work and grad school left Charley longing for companionship, which he conveyed to us by chewing on his front paws. Now, I can think of far more effective means of communication than self-mutilation, but when you lack the power of speech, I guess your options are limited.

And so, Sara and I set out to find a buddy for my little buddy--my wife insistent on finding a black pug to pair with our fawn. I liked the idea, especially because we were going to name him Coal, apropos for a black pug, and even better because we already called Charley "Char" for short so as a pair they'd be Char-Coal (too cute for words, I know).

The Friday of Memorial Day weekend we brought little Coal home. Coal instantly took to his new brother. The same was not true for Charley. But that's a story for another day. Rest assured, they are great friends now.

In our enthusiasm to have Coal join our family as soon as possible, we didn't think things through very well. That afternoon, we were embarking on a five hour trip to visit Sara's family. That's a long trip for a new puppy with a teeny bladder. Though we intended to stop pretty regularly for potty breaks, Coal apparently didn't get the memo, and within an hour of our departure, Coal chose to relieve himself...all over my wife.

Now, Sara will insist that this was the instant Coal ceased to be her dog, but I think that moment came a few months later.

Our dear, sweet Coal it turned out was allergic to the world, but that trait didn't evidence itself until a little over a year later. I was at work, and Sara had taken the dogs to the vet for vaccinations. Shortly after bringing them home, Sara called to inform me that Coal appeared to be swelling up. Being the supportive husband I am, I offhandedly dismissed her concerns. About five minutes later, my wife called again and her tone made it clear that I was no longer allowed an opinion until I laid eyes on the dog myself.

I quickly trotted home (a perk of residing on campus) prepared to act indignant amidst my wife's assured overreaction. I opened the door and scanned the living room for Coal, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead I found a balloon covered in fur attached to an unfurled tail. I was fully prepared for Coal to start a rapid ascent towards the ceiling. So with my tail tucked between my legs, dog in tow, and an "I told you so...jackass" look on my wife's face, we headed back to the vet.

Sara held Coal in her lap, reassuring him with caring strokes, and I swear to you this is exactly what happened next.

Coal lifted his head...looked Sara straight in her eyes as if he wanted to speak...and then proceeded to...projectile vomit all over her.

This, my friends, is when Coal ceased to be Sara's dog.

A hefty bill and a Benadryl drip later, Coal was fine, but unfortunately, we were just scratching the surface of Coal's allergy issues--a journey that I will highlight in future posts. Just know, the financial resources we have dedicated to Coal's mostly ineffective allergy treatments could support my Father-In-Law's firework habit for several lifetimes.

But back to the projectile vomit: Today, I can view this situation with humor (who am I kidding, it took every ounce of restraint and self-preservation to avoid cracking up as it happened); however, Sara has not achieved the necessary time and distance to see the lighter side of this tale. She may never, which is probably for the best. Coal only inflicted this kind of trauma when he was her dog so who knows what disaster would come her way if she ever reclaimed him.

All I know is that my dogs would never do such a thing.