Free Range and Grass Fed
In May, I had to rush both of my dogs to the ER vet at 9 o’clock at night because I thought they had been poisoned. I was setting out the dog bowls for chow time and I noticed Omar, the chihuahua mix was barely moving. His eyes were glazed and he looked nearly comatose.
This was not normal.
Usually, all I have to do is lean back from my laptop and that’s enough to send both dogs skittering across the floor in a frenzy of excitement because dinner o’clock is the highlight of the day. So, it was extremely odd that neither one of them showed any enthusiasm. Omar was kind of staggering around, head bobbing. His eyes had narrowed into tiny slits and his legs kept buckling before collapsing entirely. First thought: neurological episode. But then I noticed Gypsy, the terrier-dachshund, and I always throw some Chupacabra DNA into her mix on account of her personality and behavior having similar symptoms, although not nearly as severe. She was just sort of blinking and twitching and craning her head back, like there was a big parasitic alien life form hovering inches away from her face that she was trying to avoid before it clamped itself onto her snout.
Okay, so now I’m totally freaking out, thinking my dogs have been poisoned. I grabbed a couple of leashes and hustled them both out of the house. I tried coaxing a quick pee out of Omar before getting in the car but each time he tried cocking his back leg, the remaining three would buckle and he’d topple over.
I’m white-knuckle flooring it around the Beltway to Friendship Animal Hospital in Northwest DC, calling ahead to let them know I was coming in with 2 dogs. It seemed like a smart move, plus it’s the type of thing I’ve seen a bunch of times on TV — the main protagonist driving at a Mach speed to get the victim to the ER in time. 2020–2021 has been the year of dark international crime thrillers on multiple streaming platforms. I’ve picked up some first responder jargon. And I can say thank you and police in Icelandic.
So, I’m shouting into the hands-free car’s interior to the receptionist, “Coming in with two dogs, suspected poisoning, ETA 12 minutes.” I may have even have said, STAT, which in retrospect, I feel really stupid about.
When I got to Friendship, a young vet tech in a Howard University sweatshirt was already waiting outside. She leaned into the car to scoop up Omar who just sort of melted into her arms like a kind of warm-blooded invertebrate, while Gypsy crabbed away as fast as her stubby little legs could manage. Gypsy is highly anti-social even under normal circumstances. I’m convinced she has a canine version of autism.
Now she was completely bugging out.
The first thing the really nice tech asked was, “Do you have any marijuana in the house?” and I said yes, but it’s in a small jar and the jar is in a little wooden box and the box sits on top of a cabinet in my living room. If they had gotten into it, I would have known. Also, they don’t have thumbs, so being able to twist the lid off the little hotel condiment jar I stashed the weed in was highly unlikely. But then I remembered seeing them both gnawing on something in the park earlier that afternoon.
So, the next question was “Can you describe what it looked like?” and I said, “Well, it was brown, about 4 inches long and an inch wide. It sort of looked like the picture of a bear turd a friend posted on Instagram” The vet tech nodded and said it wasn’t a bear turd.
It was a blunt.
My dogs ate a blunt and they were both stoned out of their little minds and there was really nothing they could do. She said I should just take them home and monitor them. And I’m thinking, how does one monitor two dogs that are really, really high.
On the drive back, Omar lay curled in a tight ball in the passenger seat. Gypsy sprawled across my lap, chin resting comfortably on my inside elbow, unfocused eyes gazing up at the night sky.
I put on some Grateful Dead when I got home, found a Teletubbies channel on youtube, gave them a bag of Funyuns, and went to bed knowing Every Little Thing Gonna Be Alright.