Somehow, yesterday under two and a half feet of snow, the dog managed to sniff out the half-frozen carcase of some small animal that had died and partially rotted on the hill out back. He was supposed to be out taking a pee, but instead he ate most of whatever it was. He brought us back a bone, because we sometimes give him bones when we have ribs for dinner and he wanted, I’m sure, to return the favor.

By 4:30 he was starting to feel that tinge of regret in his stomach. You know, that tinge of regret you get later in the evening on Thanksgiving. That regret. He started whimpering to go out again.

We were reluctant to let him out. We didn’t want him to go back and eat more of whatever it was, like you sometimes do later in the evening on Thanksgiving. But he seemed very earnest about needing to go, so we let him.

Then I had to blow more snow out of the driveway. You can’t have a crazy-ass dog running around when you’re trying to snow-blow. You’d end up grinding up the dog and spraying him all over the neighbor’s yard. So we kept him in for about 45 minutes. It turned out to be too much. When I came back in, Brooke was mopping up diarrhea in the living room. All the windows were open to air out the smell. We started lighting candles with whatever fragrance we could find.

Then the power went out.

We got out the flashlights, lit more candles and continued to mop in the dark. We wondered if we ought to close the windows, but decided to keep them open.

The power came back on 20 minutes later. Eventually, the smell dissipated. For the rest of the evening we let him go out every half hour when he whined. Then every hour or so through the night. This morning he was still sick. At least three times.

There’s not really a point to writing this down and posting it for all to see. Except, you might draw from it a cautionary tale to remember when you’re thinking about getting a dog.