A "Sticky" Situation

I hear horror stories all of the time about people who let their dogs play with sticks.

I see them on my Facebook groups, in veterinarian articles and on news programs. I hide the gory pictures of punctured cheeks or the tragic stories, and thank my lucky stars that my dogs aren't "stick dogs".

Target and Comet are more inclined to chase a ball or a frisbee.  On the odd occasion we have found a stick for them to fetch,  they more often than not lose the stick and return back to us empty handed.

Obviously it ever occurred to me to dog-proof their environment for sticks.  Everything and anything else, maybe,  but that just seemed like a nonissue.

One morning before work I let the dogs out to do their business separately, to avoid shenanigans, and when Target went out I went to the bathroom to do my make up.  The boys had gone for their runs with their dad earlier,  this was our routine. When I was ready to go a few minutes later, I looked at my watch.  

Early! 
x

Perfect! I had a few minutes to pick up the back yard and spend some extra time with Target. 

Normally,  when I get a few extra minutes in the morning Target is elated. He will do zoomies and skid to a stop in front of me for scratches.  Zoomies again.

On this day he stood on the path as I came out,  his mouth partially open, a slight wheeze in his breathing and a pitiful look on his face.

I knew immediately something wasn't right and when I approached he tried to put his face in my hands. I got down on my hands and knees in front of him and looked into his mouth.  It seemed like something was caught in the back of his throat preventing his mouth from closing. I grabbed his chest near his collar to stop him from wiggling, reached into his mouth and grabbed onto something smooth and hard near the back of his tongue. It was tightly packed and I had to shift it a few times before it came loose.

I threw the stick onto the grass and rubbed Target's face. 

"Ok?" I signed to him. He shook and wagged. His breathing had returned to normal and his mouth was closed. 

Ok,  cool, I guess.

Crap! My time was up,  I had to get to work. I brought Target back into the house and gave him a cookie. Then,  on second thought before I left the house I checked his mouth. He had a small cut on the roof of his mouth, but nothing alarming.

I felt weird,  but, the whole scenario had lasted only seconds. As I was leaving the yard, I picked the stick up and looked at it.  It was as about two inches wide and four inches tall. It didn't look easy to break and the top felt quite sharp.

Best not to leave it lying in the yard,  somebody could cut themselves on it. I threw it in the compost bin on my way by and started my 20 minute walk to work.

I was halfway there before the realization of what had actually happened hit me.

If any small detail of this morning had been different,  this could have been the worst day of my life.

What if I hadn't finished my make up early and had just brought Target in before rushing out the door?

If it had been his dad, who doesn't have the bond with Target to be able to stuff his hand into his mouth?

I was all by myself at the house,  what if I couldn't get it loose?

It was took everything I had to keep going on to work after that.  I knew Target was fine,  but the urge to see him and have visual proof was overwhelming.

That night, we walked the yard officially and destroyed or got rid of everything that could possibly be hazardous.

I've never been a religious person,  I've always felt more spiritual. But,  even now thinking about that day and the amount of things that had to line up for me to be there at that moment,  I know something must have been watching out for us.