“The Day My Dog Overdosed on Fentanyl: A Warning, A Wake-Up Call, and a Whole Lot of Tears” By Dr. Cali Estes
You don’t forget the sound.
The panicked choking. The collapse. The foaming at the mouth. The moment your dog—your emotional support, your protector, your best friend—hits the floor and you realize something is very, very wrong.
My dog, Fozzy, overdosed on fentanyl. Yes, fentanyl.
Not in some sketchy alley. Not during a police bust. Not in a stranger’s house.
In mine.
That morning, I was in the kitchen when I heard a strange thud. Then came the horrible, guttural gagging noise. I ran into the room and there was Fozzy—twitching, drooling, pupils blown wide. His legs stiffened, then went limp.
At first, I thought it was a seizure. Maybe a bee sting. But something in me knew.
Tim, my husband at the time, was outside—rummaging through his bag, trying to find his next fix. His addiction was in full control by then. I knew he was using again. The lies were familiar. The disappearing acts. The restless pacing. The half-hearted excuses.
What I didn’t know—what I hadn’t realized that day—was that he’d left his stash inside the house, in a partially unzipped side pocket of his work bag. Not locked away. Not hidden safely. Just lying there, like a landmine in the middle of my living room.
Fozzy must’ve sniffed it out—he’s got the kind of nose DEA agents would envy. A single whiff. Maybe a lick. That’s all it took. One moment of exposure, and my dog was dying in front of me.
I screamed for Tim, but he didn’t come. He was too consumed, too lost, outside tearing through his things in desperation. I scooped Fozzy up, adrenaline pumping through every vein in my body, and tore out the door like a woman possessed.
I drove to the emergency vet, screaming at traffic lights, yelling “Please, not him. Please, God, don’t take him too.”
At the clinic, I burst through the doors, yelling, “I think my dog OD’d! He got into fentanyl!”
No hesitation. No judgment. The vet techs snapped into motion. They administered naloxone—Narcan—yes, for a dog. It was touch and go. But after a few agonizing minutes, Fozzy’s breathing returned. Slow. Shallow. But there.
And in that moment, as I collapsed in a ball of exhaustion and guilt and fury, I realized just how deeply addiction had infiltrated my home.
It almost killed my dog.
Let that sit with you.
Fozzy didn’t use. He didn’t “choose” anything. He was a curious, sweet, smart pup who happened to sniff the wrong bag. And because Tim’s addiction lived in our house, so did fentanyl. That poison was in our air. On our floors. Hidden in his bag. And it could have stolen yet another piece of my heart.
I sat with Fozzy all night, wrapped in blankets, watching his chest rise and fall. I kissed his head a thousand times and whispered, “I’m so sorry. I should have seen it coming. I should have known.” But that’s the thing about addiction—it’s a shapeshifter. It hides in plain sight. It whispers, “It’s under control,” even as it sharpens the knife behind your back.
Fozzy lived. But the damage had already been done.
That moment—seeing my dog nearly die from my husband’s addiction—ripped something open in me. There’s only so long you can live in a warzone before the smoke chokes you out. And that was it. I snapped.
I didn’t ask for a divorce.
I demanded it.
I was done.
Done living in hell.
Done walking on eggshells.
Done hiding the truth behind polished Instagram posts and strong coffee.
I’d spent years trying to fix him, to save him, to keep the peace while quietly breaking inside. But when fentanyl almost killed my dog? That was the final betrayal. That was the day I chose me.
Tim got clean after that. We even wrote a book together: I Married A Junkie. We told the world our story to strip away the shame and stigma. We tried to help others understand what it really looks like behind closed doors.
But the truth is, fentanyl doesn’t just steal the moment—it steals the long game. The damage it did to his body, his brain, and our marriage couldn’t be undone. And in 2022, it caught up with him.
He passed away.
And I became a widow at 48.
What I want you to know:
1. Fentanyl is NOT just a “user problem.”
It’s in homes. In backpacks. In neighborhoods that never expected it. This isn’t just a headline. It’s a reality.
2. Dogs are vulnerable. Just like kids.
A single lick. A sniff. That’s all it takes. If you live with someone struggling, you must take precautions. Lock it up. Get Narcan. Be ready.
3. You can’t love someone sober.
Support them, sure. Offer help. But if they’re not ready to heal, your love won’t stop the spiral. And while you’re trying to save them, you may be losing yourself—and the ones who rely on you.
Fozzy survived. By a miracle. He’s still here today, curled up at my feet. But that moment stays with me. It shaped me. It woke me up.
If you’re in a similar situation—please, wake up too.
You don’t get a second chance with fentanyl. Not always. Not often.
And sometimes, even the dog pays the price.
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Dr. Cali Estes
Addiction Specialist | Widow | Dog Mom | Advocate
www.theaddictionscoach.com
www.imarriedajunkie.com