Poor Hazel

I almost killed Hazel last night. Richard and I went to a graffiti exhibit at our hipster neighborhood café, which is next door to our building. We were gone just long enough to share a beer, see the art, and schmooze. We walked back to the apartment pleased that we had gotten out to meet people and looking forward to a so-so bottle of wine and a yummy meal that I had prepared earlier in the day. I open up the door to utter chaos. Hazel had helped herself to some groceries which I had stupidly left on a chair. Her dinner: a tube of salmon pate (including at least some of the metal container) and an entire bar of chocolate. Luckily, people here aren’t fond of dark chocolate. In the States I would have purchased ~80%, and here the upper (affordable) limit is 42%. Panic ensues. Richard gets on-line and I call a vet whose card I picked up on a whim about a month ago. He tells us that we need to induce vomiting by forcing salt water down Hazel’s throat. So we throw Hazel in the bath tub and try to get her to puke. When she doesn’t, we give her more salty water. I don’t think I’ll forget anytime soon the look of dear little Hazel as she wonders why the two people she loves the best are torturing her. As I supervised her defecating and retching in the bath tub, Richard learns that activated charcoal is an antidote to chocolate poising. The only charcoal we can find is in my water purifier, which is built about as securely as Fort Knox. We look in vain for a hammer, and end up extracting a bit of charcoal using a screw, a wrench, and a screwdriver. As we’re doing this, the power goes out, and soon after, the water. Hazel still hasn’t puked to our satisfaction, so I call up the vet again (it’s now past 11 pm). He’s obliging but not very happy to be bothered. He doesn’t know about the charcoal cure and repeats yet again that we need to make Hazel either puke or poop. The language barrier becomes a problem, especially as I’m feeling helpless and desperate and we are beginning to notice what we think are signs of chocolate poisoning. At around 1:30, Hazel is not dead and we decide that the crisis is over. What a trouper our little dog is. Richard and I both stayed close to home to watch over her. She spent the day constipated, but seemingly okay. I bought another bar of chocolate to make cookies. A piece fell to the floor, and I froze with anxiety even though Hazel wasn’t even in the room. I took so many things for granted in the States: emergency vet care with a vet who speaks my language and a phone that won’t run out of credit and a 24-hour pharmacy that sells the anti-poison pill that I need and water to clean up the dog shit and hair in the bathtub. I love it here, but in an emergency I realize that I’m surrounded by the unfamiliar. The United States office in Prishtina is closed to diplomats with children, and now I understand the reasons why.