’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, all the creatures were stirring – there was a lot to do before Christmas morning!
It was an unusual Christmas back in 2000. Although my parents lived only a couple of miles from me in northwest Atlanta, my family had moved in with them — temporarily. Why? Because our house had caught fire a few days before. Although the sprinklers came on and saved the house from being engulfed with flames, there was significant smoke damage and we couldn’t stay there. But, that is a story for another day… This one is about a special Christmas Eve at mom and dad’s.
So, my mom, my seven year old son, and I were in the kitchen, getting things ready for Christmas Eve dinner. My mom has always gone “all out” for Christmas. She decorates every inch of her home with festive Christmas cheer. This year was no exception.
We all stepped outside for just a few seconds to turn on the Christmas lights and marvel at how beautiful everything looked.
Walking back into the kitchen, we were shocked to see an empty platter on the floor and my precious pooch — ten year old, fifty-five pound Scooter — looking very guilty with wing sauce all over his face.
Seems that as soon as we stepped outside, Scooter helped himself to the my mom’s two dozen, hot-out-of-the-oven chicken wings that we had just placed on the stovetop – complete with my mom’s incredibly delicious wing sauce and…
Two dozen chicken wings with tiny, prickly bones inside my Scooter?!
That can’t be a good thing, thought I!
Instead of visions of sugar canes, I had visions of punctured organs from the splintered chicken wings passing through my baby’s belly!
So, off to the Emergency Vet we went.
Fortunately, the EV was not far away.
We weren’t the only ones there that Christmas Eve. There were a lot of tears and nervous family members in that ER. Many patients had far more life-threatening accidents than Scooter’s.
It certainly made me grateful for the skilled doctors and staff that were there to help with our precious furry, scaly, and feathered friends – even on Christmas Eve.
After a bunch of X-rays and several hundred dollars (worth every penny!), the vet sent us home with instructions to keep an eye on him. They didn’t have to cut him open to extract the wings as I had feared they might need to do.
Seems the good doctor thought Scooter’s digestive system might be able to process all those wings without serious injury.
Now days, I probably could have found that out on Google!
After a few hours, we finally got back home and had a delayed Christmas Eve dinner sans chicken wings — relieved that Scooter was likely going to be okay.
And, that is why my family still calls chicken wings “Scooter wings,” to this day.
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