If you’ve followed Scooter since the first Puppy blog in November 2019, you may remember that in September 2020 (#26 Puppy) Scooter sat on a Persian carpet “scarfing steak like the jungle python that gulped down my Sudanese friend’s fully grown dog.”

 I had plated a rare steak, buttered peas, and salad. This was placed on a TV tray, then, for a reason I don’t remember, I momentarily walked away. During my brief absence, baby Scooter snatched the filet. It was very nearly completely consumed when I located him. The blog says, “This little python got a swift swat from my foot. He rightly cringed with hearing ‘BAD! BAD! BAD!’ Or maybe the cringe was the pain of swallowing without proper chewing.”

 Not since have we needed to worry about such behavior. Scooter is three. He doesn’t take food that isn’t offered. Ever. How proud I am of such restraint.

 Fast forward to this past mid-day, Sunday, November 13. We had recorded the Seahawks/Buccaneers game played early that morning in Munich, Germany. Admittedly, the Seahawks played badly until the fourth quarter, but our neighbors were with us. We had fresh pineapple, popcorn, drinks, the Sunday Seattle Times, and oh, right, we had rich, fudgy brownies made with Belgium Callebaut cocoa.

 I inherited a stash of this fine cocoa from a friend with exquisite culinary savvy. If you believe the press, Callebaut ranks among the finest Belgian cocoas, made mostly from West African beans. Most importantly, it is a Dutch-processed powder with 22/24% cocoa butter content. It is, I’ve read, “for people who demand nothing less than the best chocolate for their baking and dessert delicacies.” So, I made brownies.

 Well, not even Scooter could resist the call to these nearly black, creamy chunks of baked chocolate. Neighbor Don placed a small plate holding brownies on the low, brass coffee table near him. The game was in the first quarter. The Buccaneers scored. So did Scooter.

 “Scooter just ate one of my brownies,” said Don.

“What?!” I was stunned.

Conversation whistled around the room. Living room game spectators now speculated on the local drama. Scooter was nowhere to be seen.

“It’s probably okay. It was a small piece.”

“It isn’t o-kay” said the retired nurse-therapist, Susan, from the sofa. “Chocolate is toxic to dogs.”

“That’s not good,” I thought.

“Oh no,” said Scooter’s dad. “Seahawks are losing ground. Oh no! A penalty. A sack! This is terrible.”

“It could kill him,” I heard.

 “Did he eat a whole brownie?” I asked.

“I don’t think it’s a problem,” said Don. “He only took one.”

“They’re toxic,” came the stern reminder.

“It was small.”

I located Scooter. His eyes bright, his guilt apparent. He wasn’t wagging his tail, but neither was he convulsing.

 I picked up my iPad; I had fairly finished with any attention to the Allianz Arena, Munich. I googled Dogs, Callebaot cocoa,

Dogs eating chocolate. I encountered an array of terrifying information about butter fat percentages, and chemical componants. I got treated to Theobromine, Methylxanthines, Trimethylxanthine, Theophylline, Dimethylxanthine not necessarily in that order, but all of it naturally appearing in cocoa beans (not naturally friendly to a dog’s brain or stomach).

What’s a dog parent to do?

I stepped out of our apartment with the phone so as not to interfere with the on-going football game. I first called our own veterinarian’s office where, not surprisingly (It was Sunday) I received the recorded message saying, “In an emergency call an emergency animal hospital or the Animal Poison Hotline.”

 I called the poison hot line, hoping to be told what I might do here at home. I answered the recorded voice’s questions. I gave all the information short of Scooter’s Social Security number required before connecting me to a veterinarian. Surprise! The next step kindly asked if I would like to pay the $75 fee by credit card. I hung up.

 I called a local Emergency Animal Hospital, where the live voice was helpful and friendly. They were “at capacity,” but “let me see if we might squeeze you in to make your dog vomit.”

The voice left. The voice returned.

“The doctor asks how much the dog weighs; how much he ate.”

I tell her. 27 pounds. One small brownie.

“Oh.” The voice was light.

“Made with Belgium chocolate.”

“Oh, Belgium cocoa,” she says in a deeply concerned tone. Please hold.”

She returns. “The Doctor says you will need to call the Animal Poison Hotline first.”

You can see where this call was going. I was to clearly understand that the qualified emergency doctor who might have induced vomiting, now would not touch Scooter without instructions from experts in pet poisoning. That call ended.

I was about to make the $75 call, knowing that symptoms “will likely occur within 6-12 hours” if Scooter is poisoned. After the $75 call, I should hope to deliver Scooter to an expensive emergency vet’s care (ca-ching!). But then, I remembered – We have a neighbor who is a Vet!”

Fortunately, our vet neighbor was home. Fortunately, he remained calm as he asked me questions about Scooter’s weight, and the amount of brownie consumed.

“He’s fine,” said the expert. “He’s fine. If he ate a pan of brownies, I would be concerned. If I ate a pan of brownies, I would be satisfied. Scooter’s fine. Don’t’ worry.”

I returned home in time to watch the fourth quarter of the Seahawks/Buccaneers game. When we Pines settled in bed, nine hours after the brownie thieving had occurred, and no side-affects had appeared (rapid heart rate, inordinate thirst, tremor), I said,

“Dave, if you wake during the night, would you check on Scooter?”

“Check for what?” he asked.

“Well, you know, that he’s behaving normally,” That he is alive, I was thinking.

“Wake him?”

“Sure. Just say hello.”

He did. Scooter’s tail thumped.

Monday morning, November 14: Scooter woke in his ordinary manner, received the ordinary morning greeting from his people, took his ordinary stretch, waited for his luxuriously ordinary breakfast, went with his dad on his ordinary long morning walk, made his ordinary stops to pee, and relieved himself of one extraordinary pile of dark chocolate-colored feces. Even Scooter took a second look.

~Scroll on down to send Scooter a comment . . .