Can't a dog barf anymore?

Without being dragged off to the vet?

I suppose my humom did not terribly enjoy being awakened at 2 a.m. by my robust retching right outside her window.  Not to mention three more times before 8 a.m.  In any case, she hit the panic button and called the vet, and there I was getting osculated and palpated and every other -ated.  Never mind that I'm a Malamute and Mallies eat everything on earth and then sometimes we barf.  No, humom had to get all flustery and have me Tested.  

Getting Tested at the vet means the girl has to try to find a vein.  First she tries one arm and stabs around with no luck.  Then humom suggests shaving some of my thick fur, and they have better luck in the other arm, by which time I am thoroughly Fed Up.  Fortunately, the girl has some primo cookies.

The blood tests, of course, show that I am in the prime of life and in superb health.  The vet opines that I have "garbage gut" -- not nearly as elegant as my usual designation of Cast Iron Stomach.  

Several hundred dollars later, we're back home where I have a hearty dinner and make plans for something really appalling for this 2 a.m.
--- Missy out