My name is Margaret.
Four years ago, I brought home Duke—a beautiful harlequin Great Dane with the gentlest soul I'd ever known.
Since my kids grew up and moved out, Duke became everything to me. My shadow. My companion. My reason to get up every morning.
He was my baby.
That's why when Duke ate his dinner that Thursday evening, I did what I always did.
I laughed.
Duke had always "vacuumed" his food—30 seconds flat for an entire bowl. I used to post videos of his eating performances.
"Look at him go! He must really love that chicken recipe!"
That Thursday started like any other dinner time.
Duke inhaled his kibble as usual. I cleaned his bowl while he wandered to his bed.
40 minutes later, I heard a sound I'll never forget.
Not quite a whine. Not quite a retch. Something guttural and wrong.
Duke was standing in the hallway, his massive body rigid. He couldn't sit. Couldn't lie down.
His stomach looked different. Swollen. Tight like a drum.