I Can't Believe I Ate the Whole Thing

I spent the night at the animal hospital, because apparently my dog has a taste for batteries. Specifically, Duracell AAAs. Can't get enough of them. So instead of curling up on the couch with my new book, I curled up on the exceedingly comfortable wooden benches of the Friendship Heights Animal Hospital and hoped that my dog wasn't about to drop dead. She'd pulled this kind of thing once before, only it was with a pound of bread dough. She'd spent the next day burping yeast bubbles.

To my right was a dude holding a black lab puppy who had tried to eat a toad. Adding to the puppy's unmitigated adorability was the fact that he was named after an artisinal cheese. (But he shall otherwise remain nameless because apparently Mrs. Dude was out of town and wasn't going to ever find about this little fracas.) So he spent the night just sort of chilling out on his back up against the dude's chest with his back legs crossed daintily in front of him watching Animal Planet, looking stoned as all bejeezus.

But midnight at an animal hospital is not all about minor mishaps and funny stories for later. A couple came in cradling an elderly dog in bad shape. They spent about an hour with him and the vet in one of the private rooms, then emerged alone and left the hospital. Outside on the steps, they leaned into each other, their shoulders shaking.

You can hardly complain about a $200 bill for the emergency exam and the four types of medicine (including mouthwash) you need to take your likely-not-a-bit-wiser, but very alive dog home after seeing that.