Not to be confused with the $700 Band-Aid, of course.

You see, in the end, the three anxious nights of worry, guilt, and tears were well-deserved. Really, I deserved more pain and suffering, but the vet’s bill took care of most of it via shock value.

The reason why Bix was so sick, why he was hospitalized, drugged up, shaved, cut open, and generally miserable for a week? Because he ate one of my elastic hair bands. The elastic broke in his stomach, and became trapped in the valve between his stomach and small intestine, blocking the way for food to get through. On top of the hair band, the vet found a large ball of matted fur, some grass and twigs, and some hard plastic. I know because after she extracted it from his stomach, she saved it in a little baggie to show me.

So, in essence, it’s all my fault. My IRA contribution for the year has instead lined the pockets of the local animal hospital, and I get my dog back, stapled abdomen, plastic e-collar, and all.

When he was a little pup learning new commands, I thought he was so smart. A dog-genius, practically. But the amount of weird stuff he eats — last summer he threw up a foot or two of the black tape you might wrap a bike’s handlebars in, close call, that — begs me to reconsider that position.

Welcome home, Bix.