Hazel the Weimaraner rests her head on my knee and looks up at me with concern. “Remember earlier when we were outside and you told me not to eat grass and I ate a little bit of grass and you said stop eating grass and then I ate a little more?”

I pet her head absentmindedly, not really paying attention. “Mmm hmmm.”

“Remember also how crabby you get when I throw up in the house and you told me to do that in the back yard next time?”

“Mmm hmmm.”

“I don’t know how to work the door, is the thing.” Hazel’s eyes grow wide with panic and her stomach starts heaving. “I maybe have to throw up. Should I go hide under the bed like last time, do you think?”

“AUGH!” I grab Hazel by the collar and head into the laundry room. In the laundry room are the two other dogs — Jack the Terrier is sleeping in a basket of dirty laundry, and Persie the Labrador is sleeping directly in front of the door that leads into the back yard. I give Persie a shove with my foot. “Move, Persie! Get out of the way of the door. MOVE.” Persie does not move, and in fact continues snoring blissfully, and so, still holding Hazel’s collar in one hand, I try to pull the door against Persie’s sleeping body, hoping to sweep her out of the way as I open the door. This works not at all, and Persie sleeps fatly through the final pre-vomit seconds as I release Hazel’s collar helplessly. “DAMN IT.”

Hazel, her body now convulsing violently, looks up at me confusedly before bowing her head to cooperate with what she understands to be my direction. She empties the contents of her stomach onto Persie’s sleeping body; half-digested food and green ribbons of grass flow into the Labrador’s chubby crevices. Persie wakes up now, and she turns her head to look at me in sad incredulity. Hazel hurries with explanations. “OK, just so you know … Mom told me to throw up on you. I was going to hide under the bed, but Mom brought me back here and made me throw up on you.”

Persie sniffs the air resignedly. “It’s not enough I am the low-dog on the totem pole of dominance, now I can’t take a nap without worrying about being barfed on?”

Hazel explains again, “Seriously, I have lots of ways of dominating you, but this one wasn’t my idea. Mom made me do it.”

Persie stares at me tragically. I grab some towels and start wiping up the mess. “Sorry, Persie. I’ll clean you up. I’m sorry.”

Hazel begins to groom herself, nodding in my direction. “I told you it was Mom’s idea.”

As I am scooping barf off the Labrador, Jack wakes up, but not coherently. He sniffs at the air and stands tall in his basket of dirty laundry, barking maniacally. “WE ARE UNDER ATTACK! IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD POSSIBLY! THE APOCALYPTIC VOMIT-SPEW IS UPON US, JUST AS THE ANCIENT ONES WARNED US WOULD BE SO! BATTEN THE HATCHES AND DOG THE TORPEDOES AND WATCH FOR TAPEWORMS BECAUSE TAPEWORMS WILL SEAL YOUR MOUTH SHUT WITH ADHESION AND NO ONE WILL HEAR YOU SCREAM!”

I sigh as I tend to Persie’s disgustingly sticky fur. “Jack, for heaven’s sake … no one barfed on you. Hush up.”

Hazel agrees. “Seriously, baby-man … get a grip.”

“THE AIR IS THICK WITH THE FETID PROOF OF SIN AND DEMONIC GRASS-SNACKING! IT IS JUST AS THE ANCIENTS FORETOLD! THE END OF THE WORLD IS UPON US IN A MASSIVE SPEWING OF UNDIGESTED GODLY RAGE! BATTEN THE HATCHES AND SEND UP A FLARE! IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD!” He lets out a little shriek of terror and kicks his feet in wild panic. “IS THAT A TAPEWORM WRIGGLING AT MY FEET? I REBUKE THEE, DEMON WORM OF ADHESION. GET YOUR TAPEYNESS AWAY FROM ME! I WILL NOT BE SATANICALLY SILENCED!”

Hazel takes a few steps to shove her nose into the laundry basket. “Is this the tapeworm? Looks to me an awful lot like a sock.”

“TAPEWORMS ARE SHAPE-SHIFTING HORRORS OF VILE APPETITES AND STICKY DOOMIFICATION! I DON’T WANT MY LIPS SEALED. IF I AM TO DIE I WILL DIE FULL-VOICED AND PROTESTING UNTIL THE END! AWAY FROM ME, DEMON WORMS OF ADHESION! I REBUKE THEE! BATTEN THE HATCHES! INFLATE THE BLADDERS!”

Hazel cocks her head. “Inflate the bladders?”

“THE SCENT OF DECOMPOSING HELL IS UPON US! INFLATE THE BLADDERS AND DOG THE TORPEDOES!”

Hazel announces, “I maybe have to barf a little bit more,” and she lowers her head into Jack’s laundry basket.

Doing a little horror-prance of nimble-footed terror among the soiled socks and underwear, Jack screams out, “THERE ARE TAPEWORMS UPON ME! I AM BESET WITH WORMS OF ADHESION! THE VOMIT APOCALYPSE IS UPON US!”

Hazel takes a shuddery breath. “False alarm.”

But Jack is hysterical. “WE ARE DOOMED! ABANDON SHIP! ABANDON SHIP! EMPTY THE BLADDERS AND EVACUATE THE BOWELS!”

Hazel cocks her head again. “Wait, what?”

“THE ANCIENTS HAVE FORETOLD THE END OF THE WORLD AND THIS IS EXACTLY HOW I HEARD IT WOULD HAPPEN ON AN INFOMERCIAL ONE TIME! THE END IS NIGH! THE NIGH IS HERE! EMPTY THE BLADDERS AND EVACUATE THE BOWELS!”

Persie struggles to stand, her flank still mussed with vomit, and together, she and Hazel stare at Jack in disbelief.

Hazel shakes her head. “Seriously, Jack?”

Persie is aghast. “OK, maybe Mom told Hazel to barf on me, but I was right here and no one told you to pee and poo in the laundry basket.”

Jack hops out of the laundry basket indignantly and glares at the other two dogs as the scent of vomit is now overladen with the twin olfactory assaults of piss and shit. “THERE WERE TAPEWORMS.”

Sigh.