Hi, I’m Dr. Karyn! Read my introduction to learn more about me and my five funny dogs, Poppy, Bailey, Kodah, Ned, and Fred.
Before there was Kodah, Ned & Fred, there was Remus, the Irish Wolfhound. And what Remus lacked in brains, he made up for in sweetness and size. He was a dopey, lolloping giant who never seemed to understand why he couldn’t sit on our laps, or why everyone was always yelling at him to stop blocking the TV.
His 3-foot-long tail had the strength and diameter of the steel cables on a suspension bridge, and he would wag that thing like a whip, leaving bruises on legs, dents in door frames (seriously), and cars overturned in its wake (I might be exaggerating on that last one).
Unfortunately for everyone involved, Remus also had a sensitive stomach.
You can probably imagine how much food a 160 lb dog consumes in a day. Now imagine how much it cost to feed our lovable behemoth on a premium, hypoallergenic diet. Add on the obscene price of his pet insurance, and you have one very expensive dog. But I suppose if we averaged his expenses over his weight, he probably cost as much per pound as one of the Chihuahuas – it’s all about perspective. And besides, he was worth every penny…most of the time.
Then there was the night that I would have accepted five bucks for him. Heck, I’d have paid you five bucks to take him. The night that will forever be known as “Code Brown In The Bedroom.”
Code Brown In The Bedroom
It started out as a pleasant, uneventful evening. We’d taken the dogs for a run in the woods, and then my husband and I went out for a meal at our favorite Italian restaurant. He had the spaghetti gamberoni, I had the vegetable calzone. As we drove home, the taste of raspberry panna cotta and limoncello on our lips, we had no idea of the horror that lurked behind our front door.
The first thing to hit us was the smell. All thoughts of the epicureal delights of the evening were forgotten, and in their place was a horribly familiar olfactory presence. We both worked in a veterinary practice, we had a dog with a dodgy stomach, and we knew what had happened. And yet, there was still a tiny part of me that hoped it was just gas. That tiny glimmer of hope was dashed when I spotted a murky brown puddle in the middle of the kitchen.
“Phew” I said, “At least it’s on a hard floor.”
Little did I know that this was just the tip of the fecal iceberg.
My nose twitched as I ventured further into the house, as the smell was getting worse, not better. Our two Labradors, Poppy and Bailey, were huddled together on the sofa, tails wagging and eyes full of worry. As I entered the bedroom I saw two things that were out of place. The first was another steaming pile of manure on the carpet, and the second was Remus, curled up on our bed; he never sleeps on our bed.
As he lifted his massive head, his huge tail gave a hesitant twitch, and that’s when I saw it. The rest of the iceberg. But of course, it wasn’t really an iceberg. It was an enormous puddle of diarrhea that had seemingly poured from our gargantuan dog’s rectum like a river bursting through floodgates.
Let that sink in for a moment. Sink in like the liters of watery feces that were soaking into my bed.
Containing The Toxic Spill
I would love to tell you that my first thought was Remus’s wellbeing – our poor boy having endured such a torrent of fluid exiting his body. I would love to say that I rushed to his side to make sure he was okay, not dehydrated or in pain, but no. My first thought was that I just wanted to light a match and walk away.
My second thought was about how I could get Remus off the bed without further spreading the brown flood that was slowly soaking through my favorite quilt cover. Remus had the sort of cheerful disposition that meant a look in his direction or the use of his name would start his tail wagging, a tail that was now partially coated in something that looked like, but wasn’t thick, brown mud.
“Oh s**t” came my husband’s apt assessment of the situation.
We carefully coaxed Remus off the bed, me holding the end of his tail as my husband slowly led him toward the nearest exit. We would sic the garden hose onto him later.
(Remus was fine, by the way. No dehydration; just flatulence and embarrassment.)
Pulling on some rubber gloves, I carefully folded the edges of the quilt and sheets up to contain the worst of the deluge while husband dealt with the fecal landmines on the floor. There was no saving the bedclothes. The mattress, however, would be another story.
As I stared at the wet, brown stain in the middle of our bed, tears began rolling down my cheeks.
“Why are you crying?” asked my husband, ever sympathetic.
“Why aren’t you?” I cried, pointing angrily at the mattress that we had purchased only two months prior. “I’m pretty sure this will void our 100-day free trial.”
Operation Cleanup
It was now 10:30 pm, and my husband placed a desperate call to our local supermarket, which hired out wet-vac machines, and blessedly stayed open until 11. Unfortunately, their only machine was being repaired.
So we set to work: soak, spray, sponge, repeat.
After two hours, the stain was looking slightly more beige than brown, but the smell lingered on.
We slept in the spare room that night (and for several nights after), while Remus, having been bathed and given something to settle his gut, slept in the laundry room.
The next morning I hit the shops to restock our supply of bleach, laundry detergent, fabric deodorizers, and everything else we had used up the previous night, while my husband went to sort out a wet-vac. As the bored woman at the checkout scanned my ludicrous supply of cleaning products, I felt compelled to tell her what had happened.
She stopped mid-scan, looked me in the eye, and placed a hand on my arm.
“I am so sorry.” She spoke with such genuine sympathy, and I can tell you, I have never felt more heard and validated, before or since, than in that moment.
Do You Have A Dog With A Dodgy Tummy?
If you have a dog with a sensitive gut, don’t wait to have an epic diarrhea story ruin your year. Talk to your vet and start the process of diagnosing the problem. It might be a medical issue or a food sensitivity that can be managed with medication or diet change.
Even dogs with well-controlled gastrointestinal issues can have the occasional flare-up, so it’s worth having a few things on hand to help you through a code brown emergency:
- Medication – talk to your vet about keeping an emergency supply of anti-diarrhea medication at home.
- Bland diet – depending on what triggers your dog, it’s worth keeping some frozen chicken or fish in the freezer that you can boil to give your dog some bland meals.
- Get a mattress protector – although Remus is sadly no longer with us, I always keep a waterproof mattress protector on our beds, just in case!
- Invest in a wet-vac – this has been one of the best things we’ve bought to keep our house clean with a lot of pets.
- Cleaning supplies – keep some gloves in the cupboard, and make sure you have a quality cleaner for hard surfaces, fabric, and carpet, that neutralizes pet odors.
If you have a doggy diarrhea story that rivals mine, I’d love to hear it! Perhaps we could start a support group…
