11:33 p.m. Three minutes into Leno and 20 minutes into that I’m-almost-asleep-but-not-quite stage. Me, lying on the couch. Husband in the recliner and dog sleeping on hardwood floor.

Then, in one swift motion, dog is up — and vomitting.

On carpet.

Husband: Kodiak!

Wife: Not on the rug!

Dog: Runs towards his bed (also on hardwood) and proceeds to vomit. Again. Missing the hardwood floor by a mere quarter of an inch (of course) and leaving stomach contents all over the corner of his bed.

Wife: Sigh.

Husband: Kodiak, want to go outside?

Dog: Obviously better, happily scampers outside without a glance backwards.

Wife: Heads to kitchen to gather clean up essentials.

Husband: Gag, dry heave, EWWWWW, gag, ugh, gross.

Wife: Seriously? This is nothing. Wait until our first baby has that explosive diarrhea that goes up its back.

Husband: Ewwwwww, another dry heave, gag.

Wife: Rolls eyes. Tells husband to go take care of the dog bed, which really just requires taking off the cover and putting it in the wash. Proceed to clean up dog vomit (oddly aerated and when breathing through mouth [recommended] not so smelly.), and think longingly of that just-before-sleep stage that now lies in a grocery bag with air-whipped dog puke.

Husband: Is it clean?

Wife: Rolls eyes. Again.

Dog: Looks on top of fridge where treats are stored. Apparently feels better.

Husband: Gag, dry heave, ewww, gross, ugh.

Wife: Rolls eyes. Again. Again, again.

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