In fourteen years of emergency practice, the call I took most often did not open with a dramatic story. It opened with a woman saying she had no idea, and that she had let him out like she always does.
Say you open that back door three times a day. Morning, after lunch, before bed. That is 1,095 times a year that your dog walked onto that grass and you did not go with him. That is not carelessness. That is what a back door is for.
After a warm rain, wild mushrooms come up in ordinary back yards overnight. In the mulch bed, along the fence line, in the dead leaves at the back. Every one of those is exactly where a nose goes. And they were not there yesterday.
There is a term for what makes mushrooms different from most of what I see. Enterohepatic recirculation.
It means the poison gets absorbed twice. Once when he eats it. Then his liver pulls it back out of the blood and drops it into his gut, and it gets absorbed a second time.
There is no antidote for a wild mushroom. There is an hour. Here is exactly how to spend it.