My apartment complex has become a thriving butterfly community. There are little yellow ones and little orange ones everywhere. I do not like butterflies or moths. They used to downright terrify me. If one came within fifty feet of me, I would scream and run. Now, I flinch at at initial discovery and just keep my eyes on the little shit until I am sure it has traveled a safe distance from me.
Auggie loves all flying insects. She catches them and eats them. It is a handy habit when a fly or mosquito hawk finds it's way into the apartment, a hilarious habit when she bites into a stinkbug, and a stressful habit when she catches a bee or wasp.
The past few days, our time at the dog park has consisted of her gleefully chasing and eating butterflies while I play poker on my phone. Every so often, I'll glance up because I get a sick thrill from watching my little exterminator at work. Today I looked up to find her at the very back of the park, with her nose to the ground. Assuming she was eating something she shouldn't (mushroom, dog shit, dead animal) I yelled for her to stop and ran out to her.
As I got closer, I realized she wasn't eating anything at all. Just the opposite. Poor thing was vomiting. I started talking to her in my soothing voice, "Aw, baby. It's going to be ok." And that's when I saw it.
There in the small puddle of puke, two butterflies. One little yellow one. One little orange one. Most elegant vomit ever.