This is Your Brain on Drugs

This is Your Brain on Drugs

I drugged my dog. Not because it was funny, that was just the added bonus. I drugged him because he had surgery to replace his cruciate ligament (knee thingy). Based on the price that sentence should have read, “Our dog is considered the key to the universe and shall be saved, sparing no expense.”

Anyway, I brought him back to the vet for a follow-up because he was one of the lucky ones to get a staph infection after the surgery and couldn’t bear weight on his titanium masterpiece. I gave him his narcotics before his appointment because our princess has a tendency to overreact to pain. (Think man-cold for dogs). When I got there, they told me they were going to have to sedate him to get an x-ray. I was concerned about the interaction of the drugs but they reassured me he would be fine, just drooly.

When Scooby emerged from the back of the building with his 3% complication of a swollen patella (different knee thingy), he was happy as a teenager on SnapChat. He staggered to the car with a grin as big as his 20lb dogfood bag. And, he was panting like he’d seen his first girl dog in the altogether while there. In a word–stoned.

We put his food bowl under his face that night because he refused to move from the foyer. He would let his tongue fall out of the side of his mouth to stick to a piece of kibble. He would chew each piece like a savoury delicacy and smile with his eyes closed. Stoned.

I had to carry his 48lb ass to his bed that night and he couldn’t even make it out to pee. I had planned to give him another one of his narcs before bed, but thought he was still stoned and over medicating is bad. Right?!

Cue 2am. Said hairy family member got a case of the, “Oh fuck, what happened to me’s.” He started to cry/talk. Was he thirsty? Hungry? Did he have to pee? No. Still stoned.

I gave him a tummy rub and tried to calm him. He was shaking a bit and he looked at me with his stoner eyes as if to say, “More Mummy. More.” To which I answered, “No Stoner. This is going to be a rough night for both of us.”

Mister was out of town. He has a knack for not being there when the dog does stupid shit or just plain old rolls in shit. Like the time Scooby had the fish oil farts and Mister was out of town. Or, the time Scooby murdered a duck he was also not home. Remember the time Scooby rolled in poop and Mister was home but didn’t care to notice? Good times. Good times.

Twelve hours. That’s right. I consoled our dog for twelve hours as he continuously begged for more narcs. I had them at the ready more than once during the night but like taking a pacifier from a baby, I was not going to give in even if it meant I never slept again.

I recorded him in the morning as he talked about his crazy dreams of dog treats dancing, a room made of dog beds, and a tummy rubbing robot named Trixie. That one was the strangest. Here’s what I heard for twelve straight hours. Cheese bullet is code for doggie narcotics wrapped in cheese. Brace yourself for the whining.

See. Stoned. Am I wrong?

A while later, this.

Right?! Still stoned.

So let that be a lesson to y’all. Don’t do drugs. Unless you are planning to detox your super expensive pansy-ass Princess dog, then a sedative for yourself couldn’t hurt. Why should he have all the fun.


Comments

  1. I’m looking forward to the future follow-up in which Scooby goes to rehab and becomes part of a doggy twelve-step program.
    Christopher recently posted…On The Road Again.My Profile

  2. Well, as to the follow up vet appointments, he is YOUR dog and a member of your family, so doctor stuff should be expected! I know what you mean by the prices they charge. If a specialty should ever be regulated, Vets are at the top of MY list (maybe auto repairmen and plumbers too). I can afford to keep my cats, I just can’t afford them when they get sick!
    Anymore of that (those) stories and everyone will be sobbing, so – never mind.

  3. Poor guy. My goodness we put them through some crazy shit.

  4. awwww dogs are so vulnerable when hurt.

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