Teeny, tiny problem of overreacting

I had a stomachache, I took some Rolaids, I took a nap. I felt better. Woo.

Two hours later, Dave walks in the dining room and finds wrapper foil on the ground. Chewed.

I do not normally chew my Rolaids with the wrapper on, so I immediately went into freak-out mode.

"Oh my God, Mr. Big, whatdidyouDO?" He'd eaten the whole roll, that's what he did. Crumbs were all over the couch. Any minute he'll be on the floor, having convulsions, I thought, and In frantically marched heavy-heeled around the room going "Dave, Google 'dog ate antacid,' not 'dog ate Rolaids.'"

We broke down and called the vet's afterhours number because, as we were on our way out the door when Big attempted suicide, I didn't want to come home to him ... not so well.

I could hear Dave in the other room, the voice of calm, steady explanation, as I sat on the coffee table, staring at Big laying on the couch. Any moment, I thought, and he'll start throwing up. Or foaming at the mouth. Or dry heaving. Something. Anything resembling death by Rolaids.

"Sure, yeah," Dave said. "She can call me at ..."

Great, I thought. They're calling in backups. They're calling the humane society. I'd be arrested for leaving my Rolaids in a place he could grab them. I'd be dragged kicking and squirming out of the house in handcuffs, screaming "Don't! Stop! I love him!" in a really too-twangy-to-be-real Southern accent.

I went upstairs and waited for the death call. "Big. Why? Why did you do this to us?" I thought. My heart thumped in my chest, my palms were dripping sweat.

"He'll be fine," Dave said repeatedly, sighing and half-laughing. "He'll be FINE."

Then the phone call: I heard not Dave's shriek of fear, but laughter. Laughter? I heard his cell snap shut.

"Did they tell us to just make the most of these last 10 minutes of his life?" I asked.

"She said he'll be fine. And, if he had any heartburn, that should be taken care of, too."

Hm. And also, maaaybe I should chill out a bit. Just a tad.