Sam

My Sam celebrated his 8th birthday on Sunday. Finally, I thought, he's all grown up.

Spoke too soon.

I came home from work to find that he'd slipped his muzzle at some point today. He ate at least two raw potatoes--maybe more. And he didn't just eat them in the kitchen, where a mess would be easy to clean up. No, he carried them to his bed and messily ate them there.

He doesn't appear to have eaten anything else. (The furniture is all still standing.) He seems to feel fine--except when I take him outside. He's pooping, um, foam.

I gave him a bit of dinner, in hopes that his kibble will help settle his stomach. If he's not back to normal tomorrow, I may take him to work with me so he can go outside frequently.

Meanwhile, Jacey--who was safely ensconced in her crate--she's the one I found throwing up. There's no way Sam shared his potato prize, and in her case it looks like empty-stomach blaps. And that's odd, because she had a regular breakfast this morning before I went to work and she's never had stomach trouble while I've been gone. I just fed her her regular dinner. If Sam goes with me tomorrow, she might, too, because I'm not sure how little Miss Separation Anxiety would do in the house without Sam.

(Eeewww, Sam's burping potato. Maybe a bit of yogurt...)