Death by Chocolate. Well, Almost.

My dog recently tried to commit suicide.

I should have seen it coming, what with the steady increase of children around here and the equally steady decrease in his activity level. Apparently, in a moment of rock-bottom desperation, he saw a way out: An oversized bag of chocolates on top of my favorite living room table.

“Come here, big guy. Come closer…” the confections must’ve said to him. “Eat this and you’ll go to the big field in the sky where Frisbees are thrown 24/7. Where the roads are paved with carrots (my dog’s odd), your bed’s a big comfy couch. Oh, and there are no toddlers.”

It worked. He devoured the whole 5 lb. bag — foil wrappers and all. When I found him, his big ole 80-pound body was beached on the living room rug like a furry Orca. A few tale-tell bits of foil lay scattered near him. And the deep, deep scratches in my favorite (did I mention that?) table read like lines from a canine suicide note.

After a quick call to the vet, I hauled the pedigreed mutt out back onto the deck to induce vomiting. It seems that hydrogen peroxide wasn’t the bubbly Ollie wished to wash his chocolates down (well, actually up) with. The fella’s got quite an ornery streak. But so do I. After conjuring up my best crocodile hunter impression, I body slammed him to the ground and won. Round one, that is.

After getting the first tablespoon down his chocolate-coated throat, I waited expectantly for the result. Nothing. Ding, ding. Time for round two. I circled the deck ominously, giving him my steeliest glare. This time it was more like crocodile hunter meets bull rider. But again, my ornery side kicked in and I persevered. After getting the second tablespoon of peroxide down his chocolate-coated throat, I waited again. Nothing. Not even a gag. Maybe I should call the vet and see how long this should take.

As soon as I opened the door to go in, the hound dashed in and – you guessed it – vomited his entire stomach contents on my wool rug. Then he oh-so calmly swaggered up the stairs to go to bed. I swear he looked back at me with a smirk. The only saving grace was that the vomit had a lovely chocolate aroma.

Ollie is our first child, if you will.