It was a year ago today that Holly and I found ourselves in New Orleans in the middle of the pandemic (before vaccines, I might add), and decided to go to a small party with some of our favorite people – a questionable decision at best. But life has often taken us to weird places, and a tiny house with an interior courtyard in the French Quarter is among them. I wore a very sparkly white tulle skirt and my fabulous vintage silver fox. Holly wore her leash, with her poop bag container dragging behind as I let her go in the courtyard and allowed her to explore. And explore she did. She found something green that looked like candy. It was not candy. It was meant for rodents. She had chewed and swallowed some before I got her away and then our host made a call to a friend who was a vet and all hell broke loose. Over the phone, this person I’ve never met but who obviously knows stuff about the care and maintenance of dogs advised that we should take Holly to a doggie emergency room immediately. Everyone at the party urged me to do so. They offered rides, directions, and a free guilt trip thrown in. John offered to pay for the emergency room visit, which was nice but unnecessary as I stood firm in my decision not to go. Because if I were a small elderly dog I would not want my stomach pumped. (Actually as a medium-sized youngish human I also feel the same). Because I don’t trust an emergency vet found in the middle of the night in a city I don’t know well using nothing but google. Because Holly is not a rat. Because my gut told me she’d be fine. She was. So, today we are celebrating my dog’s resilience, but also me trusting my instincts. I want to remember to do that more often. Also, I still think it’s awful that people are so mean to rats.