This Monday, which I have off thanks to the holiday, began well. Waking up early and rested in addition to not having to go to work is such a calming start to the week. I had my favorite tea. I made almost-burned toast and peanut butter. I decided to take a trip to the grocery store because we didn't have much food in the house. I like the grocery store. I like loitering in the aisles. Possibilities on a mundane level. But something happened to change my mood.

On the way to the store I listened to the NC State radio station, hoping to hear some new tunes. During a break they played a public service announcement for the Peace Corps. It was well-done, intended I suppose to get people thinking of all the more adventurous things they could be doing. Meeting nomads in the Gobi Desert or teaching computer skills to young Armenians. The Peace Corps motto, "life is calling," echoed through my Civic as the spot ended and the station went back to some kind of harsh punk that really wasn't very good.

Suddenly the excitement I'd generated at the thought of my impending grocery store visit seemed ridiculous. When I was in high school my initial desires to join the Peace Corps were dashed as I contentedly engaged myself with social life and the prospects of college in Boston here in the States. The appeal of being in a foriegn place - even one that needed me - faded as I realized I just liked the idea of doing something different in a general sense. It wasn't that I wanted to shirk adventure, but more that I was discovering what my kind of adventure was. I wanted to be a writer.

Therefore this public service announcement did not send me back into some adolescent daydream of jetting off to Africa. I'm over that. But I did emit an "oh shit," as the realization sunk heavily into my being, rendering the happy mood I had sustained all morning lifeless.

The realization, of course, is that I want to do something. I want to do the 26-year-old version of the 12-year-old Peace Corps dream.

I do a lot of things. I work. I write for a newspaper and I like that. I walk my dogs. I follow politics. I'm on an committee for a non-profit. And none of these are the thing. Important fulfilling things? Yes.

I talked to my brother about this recently. He is now in a little village in Italy on a study-abroad program. Before he left we talked about him going there - how he was excited and knew it would be good for him. I talked him about how I was feeling and that maybe I needed a second job or to take a class.

No, he said, you need to do something extreme.

I explained to him then that I couldn't just leave. There is a boy here, living in a house with me, that I love. There are two dogs, and various people and routines I've gotten used to, and what's more, am happy to have in my life.

No, he said again, not like that. Not like moving away or anything like that, he explained. In the rest of our philosophic discussion, I gained that what he meant if not so much put into words was that I needed to figure out what this "extreme" thing was for myself.

So after the grocery store and memories of this conversation, I decided that worry is not the correct emotion to bring to this situation. Maybe it isn't going back to school or a new job that I'm looking for. I have always said I would like to write a book. Putting a name on it is a good start - what I want to achieve...my extreme something.

I came back from a nice walk in the creek this afternoon to discover Mina sitting calmly at the window, awaiting my return. Suddenly, with a horrendously ominous feeling, I remembered the chocolate craving I'd had earlier in the day which I'd satisfied by buying a Toblerone chocolate bar and eating a few triangles. And then I walked over to the plastic drugstore bag lying where I had carelessly left it on the table. My Crest White Strips were there and intact. But the chocolate was gone and I knew where I'd find the remains - and did - torn apart on the blanket where the dogs sometimes sleep in the bedroom. "Careless" takes on a new meaning when you are around my 10-pound Mina. Careless means leaving the chairs too close to the counter because Mina might fancy a scavenging trip around the counter. Careless means leaving the door to the closet where we store the trash even a touch less than completely closed. Careless might mean failing to inform any visitors that should they have any gum, snacks, lip balm, or other edible items anywhere in their belongings, that it would be safer to place those items out of human reach.

She only eats edible things, mostly human food. Mina has never enjoyed typical bad dog behavior, like getting into the Advil bottle or chewing the furniture. But she has a tremendous propensity for scouting out any food product once we have left the house. She will also scale great distances, like from the floor to the counter top, to reach her goal. Being a tiny dog, her talent is both admirable and terrifying.

Therefore, leaving a Toblerone bar out for her to discover (which I did completely unknowingly) was beyond careless. It bordered on wrecklessness or animal abuse.

After discovering the remains in the bedroom, I gathered Mina in my arms and proceded to pace around the room. She's done things like this before, so I wasn't in a full panic. She ate seven chocolate cupcakes once with no negative side effects. I know it takes a lot of chocolate to seriously hurt a dog, so decided to look up what I could on the internet. When all I found were scary sites that didn't provide any helpful information ("NEVER feed your dog chocolate." "Dogs should never even taste chocolate." "After indulging in the Christmas candy, Daisy, the beloved yellow lab, went into a nearly irreversible coma.") I called my vet's office, a place I adore.

I attempted to convince them that I was calm as I struggled with tears, Mina, who's little body was still producing a normally beating heart, thank the lord, in my arms (I constantly checked her vitals like we were in an ER and I the star of one of those high-stress doctor TV shows).

3.2 ounces. That was the amount of the entire bar, information I gained after fishing the torn container out of the trash where I'd (again with the carelessness) thrown it away.

"Mina. Mina don't die," I told her while on hold. They were calculating the toxic level of milk chocolate for a ten-pound dog. "Don't die. Please."

I often tell people that if anything were to happen to Mina, I wouldn't be able to go on. While an exaggeration, there is some truth in it. Some part of me would damaged forever. She barks at strangers. She attacks other dogs. She won't go out when it's raining, and consequentially poops on the floor. But she loves me. Mina creeps into bed to sleep next to me when she thinks I can't hear her. She jumps onto the couch when I've got her leash out because it is easier for me to reach her there. She is smart and mischeivous and small. Don't die. Don't consume toxic items, little dog.

It turns out, I found after waiting for what seemed an eternity on the phone, that the toxic level for a dog Mina's size is eight ounces. Since she definitely ate less than three, the worst I should expect is for her to have an upset stomach. I told the woman in the vet's office thank you about ten times, and calmed down.

She will be ok, but I'll be watching for any signs of distress, just in case. I'm sure it was worth it for her - the brief but intense moments of pleasure ripping the box apart and enjoying some Toblerone. That stuff is damn good.