This isn't Fear Factor, bitch

I love my dogs. Everyone knows that. But I was ready to kill one of them last night.

Zoe.

The dog is a chewer. Always has been. Here's a short list of the stuff she's done over the course of almost six years:

• eaten the leather off a steel-toed boot ... and the ends of the laces
  
• gnawed a hole in the drywall (from the safety of her crate, mind you)
  
• shredded a favorite photo, for which I have no negative
  
• nibbled the wood along the bottom of my dresser (again, from the crate)
  
• destroyed the baseboards in two apartments
  
• thoroughly enjoyed a Chik-fil-A chicken wrap carelessly left on the coffee table for less than 2 minutes
  
• devoured three York peppermint patties in a bowl of Halloween candy
  
• chewed countless buttons from numerous shirts
  
• freshened her breath with chewing gum, mints and Chapstick
  
• splintered the plastic shell of a ball-point pen
  

There's more. This is just what immediately comes to mind.

Most recently (as Maki can attest to) she ate almost a pound of my favorite mint M'n'Ms at Christmastime. I had been shopping at Target. As everyone knows, you always leave with a bunch of random shit that (if you're lucky) all gets thrown into one bag. That bag had wrapping paper and random Christmas-related stuff in it, none of which was edible. Save the M'n'Ms ... which had slipped my mind. I had used a spare comforter on Saturday night which, come Sunday morning, ended up tossed over the Target bag left haplessly on the floor. Sometime Sunday night, Zoe not only found the Target bag, but chewed though it (rather than going in through the top), burrowed into the bag of M'n'Ms and helped herself (I only discovered this two days after this ordeal). She crawled in bed with me and fell asleep. When I woke up Monday morning for work, her belly was bloated and she looked guilty as shit. I knew she had gorged herself on something, but didn't know what. I went about my routine and told my husband I would bring her to the vet and go into work late. Rather than waiting until we got to the vet, she threw up right after my husband had left for work. Long story short, this normally 11-pound-dog was now 13 pounds! After an ungodly vet bill and copious amounts of vomit, she was back to 11 pounds and none the wiser.

I say this because the stupid dog ate something inedible last night that landed us in the emergency vet clinic at 10:30. Same routine - twice as much money. And this time she was on the brink of needing surgery to remove it. We had plenty of time to worry ourselves sick while they were in the back examining her, which resulted in a very pointless argument.

Husband: Why the fuck did she eat that?!
Me: Who cares! She ate it, we're here. We are just going to have to pay for whatever she needs. There's nothing we can do.
Husband: But Jesus ... Of all things, why that?
Me: The dog's eaten dumber shit before. Don't know why this surprises you.
Husband: Stupid dog.

They showed us her X-rays, and how the stuff she'd gotten into filled her stomach, and asked if we were okay with them inducing vomiting. I told them yes. So they got her to throw up again ... and again ... and again. When we got her back, it was like nothing happened. She was chipper and perky and, well, Zoe. Didn't learn a damn thing.

As I walked her out to the lobby to pay the tab, I looked down at her and said in my angriest voice, "We need to have a talk, you and I."

I paid the tab: $261.

My parting words to the receptionist:
"You guys have been great, but I hope I never have to see you again."