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(continued) Of dogs and drink, and bones and mothers

I figured Steve had eaten something, so I told her we should wait an hour to see if he got any better. He got worse. So I gathered up Steve in a bath towel and Mother drove us to Animal Urgent Care. We didn’t know exactly where the place was, so we drove around at 72-year-old woman pace for a half-hour, me holding a spastic Chihuahua against my chest with one good hand and a big blue towel. You can’t make this stuff up.

We had no sooner walked in than the nurse spotted the glaze over Steve’s bulging, dilated eyeballs and said, “He’s having an episode.”

“Episode my ass,” I replied. “He’s tripping balls.”

They took him to the back and seated Mother and I in an exam room. Five minutes later, the nurse returned and asked, “Can I speak candidly with you?”

“Of course,” I replied.

She said, “It appears as though your dog has ingested marijuana.”

Mother gasped, “Marijuana?”

It took every bit of persuasive reasoning that an unshaven, 40-year-old in the company of his mother with a cast on his hand and a blown-out Chihuahua can muster not to slap the look of disbelief off the nurse’s face as she questioned me at length about my possession, or lack thereof, of a drug I haven’t done in 20 years.

After a minute, however, it dawned on me that while I do not routinely use controlled substances, Mother does, about a dozen or so of them in pill form every day. “Mother,” I asked, “What kinds of medicines do you take?” She started with calcium and B-vitamins…. “No, Mother,” I snapped, “The ones with psychoactive properties.”

“Oh those,” she responded, chatting through a list of medication. She came to one with strong stimulant properties that is used to treat narcoleptics, and I knew we were on to something….

Steve spent the night and half the next day in the hospital coming down off something designed to keep full-grown adults with sleep disorders from dozing off – a visit that set me back a cool $869 – seriously!

Eventually, Steve and I came home in the relative assurance that I was better and so was he. As I type, one-handed, Steve is curled up on the couch asleep. He’s dreaming, no doubt, of little pink rabbits with sparkly tails, chocolate covered bacon strips, and smoky rawhide crickets.

I look forward to paying a visit to Mother’s house again very soon, but when I do, I think I’ll schedule the psychiatrist’s visit for afterward.

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