Probably not your favorite blog post

We left Friday at 5:30 a.m., which I was pretty dang proud of, considering I don't usually like to acknowledge that there is such a thing as 5:30 a.m. But then I quickly wanted to jump from the car while it was going a healthy 65 mph on Hwy 41, all in the name of "MY GOD HE JUST KEEPS THROWING UP."

The dog. That animal! We weren't in Milwaukee when he decided to lose the few pieces he'd scrounged for while we were packing the car. Then again, twice, while we were on 94 in Chicago (because Dave, oops!, got off the toll road too early. Way too early -- downtown during morning rush hour, anyone?). I don't know if you know this, but stopping on I-94 in Chicago only happens because of traffic. Not dog puke. And it does not happen beside a trash can, a water fountain and a stack of absorbent napkins.

"Can't you clean it up with some napkins?" Dave asked from the driver's seat. I turned around in the passenger seat to check out the mess Big'd made in his crate in the back seat.

"Yeah, hold on ..." Enter bile. "NO. DAVE NO NO NO NO." I turned to face the front of the car, tossing a few napkins from the McDonald's bag into the dog's crate.

If you're eating or if you have a stomach that prefers stories about butterflies and unicorns over stories about messes involving canine liquids, maybe you shouldn't read on.

The bile came because I'd lifted the top off Big's crate so I wouldn't pull him through the mess. But it was too late. The mess, it'd crept to him. It was in his tail. On his paws. I wanted to die. So I did, momentarily.

"Are you OK?" Dave asked, sensing that the heavy nasal inhaling I was doing wasn't to breathe in the fresh Chicago air.

"Just. Stop. When you can. Stop. I can't. I can't do it," I said, admitting defeat.

"Is this how you're going to be when we have a kid?" He laughed.

"Yes." I didn't laugh. Not even a little bit. Naa-sty.

And that's why, after consulting my veterinarian uncle at the wedding we were at Saturday, we decided to drug Mr. Big before the eight-and-a-half hour car ride Sunday. We love us some Dramamine.