Believe it or not, Cruella informed me that she was the one who had been instructed by the vet himself! (Yes, she used an exclamation mark in her speech). She also explained in no uncertain terms that that I was not a vet and that I knew not of what I spoke. Then she threw me out of the kitchen. This made me very unhappy. (I still hadnít got my coffee.)
Sometime later, I heard something of a commotion coming from the bay at the other side of the building. I ambled over in the hope that either bacon sandwiches or chocolate cake were being served. Not that this has ever happened before, you understand, but I'm a "glass half full" kind of guy and continue to live in hope.
Sad to relate, instead of discovering a tempting treat, I found everyone standing around looking at a dog splayed out on the floor in an insulin coma. As Cruella had so keenly observed, I'm not a vet (although I'm confident I could play one on TV), but I'm also not a dingbat, and I have heard about this sort of thing. The one thing I remembered was that an insulin coma means the victim's blood sugar has fallen to a dangerously low level. While everyone else was running around in circles shouting, "Donít panic!" I quickly mixed a couple of teaspoons of sugar into a bowl of water, stuck it under the dog's nose, and started dribbling drops into his mouth using my fingers.
After a few seconds, the dog started lapping up the water by itself. A short time later, he was staggering around looking like he'd being enjoying recreational drugs and humming the doggie equivalents of "Lucie in the Sky" and "Strawberry Fields Forever."
I subsequently discovered that, while still thinking I was a complete idiot who didnít know what I was talking about, Cruella had become sufficiently worried that she'd asked everyone else in the building what they thought, and they had all confirmed what I'd said. The end result was that, this time, she had only given the dog the correct 18ml dose.
The problem was that she had been overdosing the poor little rascal for the past couple of days, and the previous excesses had finally caught up with the little scamp. Someone told me that the vet told Cruella that -- had she given the dog one more overdose -- the poor little sausage might well have no longer been with us. I didnít hear this from Cruella myself, because she is no longer speaking to me. For some reason, it appears that she thinks everything is my fault. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, it's a funny old world sometimes. One thing I do know, I donít envy Cruella's husband should he ever need her to administer any injections for him.
— Max Maxfield, Editor of All Things Fun & Interesting