The use of recreational drugs is bad.
I know you’re wondering how I, Liza Jane, would know this. How would a black labrador retriever know recreational drugs are bad? I’ll tell you how I know …
You see, the family was gone one evening and there was a nasty storm raging outside. Harold, Ben and I were all inside and I was doing what I always did when I was home … sleeping. Sadly, having to live with Harold and Ben meant “was” was the key word.
The strangest sound drew me out of my heavy sleep. A purring, meowing, purring sound was coming from the other room. Harold was known for his purring or lack thereof actually. Most people like to say that when a cat is purring, their “motor is running”. If that was true, then Harold had a rod knocking. His purr would miss out, sputter, cough and sound generally sick.
Stretching and yawning, I crawled off the couch to the rumble of thunder. Turning the corner around the couch, the lights flashed and rain hammered against the windows. The purring meow was accompanied with a strange scratching sound.
Scratch, scratch, purr. Scratch, purr, meow.
The lightning flashed again, lighting up the house and I saw a form on the floor. It was rolling on the carpet and twisting in strange shapes. The strange sounds seemed to be coming from the form.
Stretching my nose out, I tried to catch the scent of the object. What was it? It didn’t quite sound like Harold and if it was, he would have said something.
Trying not to get too close, I leaned far out and sniffed out at the air. Ugh! Yep, it was Harold, but what was wrong with him?
“Harry?” I whispered, “You okay buddy?”
Another flash and he looked up at me. His eyes were huge! They were dilated wide and he was purring … well … choking … okay, whatever that sound was he made. Then I saw it. Catnip.
Harold was high on catnip!
“Heeeey Liiiiiiza,” Harold cooed, “How ya doooooin’?” His words were slurred and he was drooling on himself.
“Harold,” I laughed and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. “Time for bed,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.
“Beeeeeed,” he slobbered, “Beeeed sounds goooooood.”
“I’m sure …” but something stopped me in mid-sentence.
There was a heavy clunk from the other room. Then another. It sounded like someone was beating something against the wall. Clunk, clunk.
“Harold?” I asked, “You hear that?”
“I … can heeeeear colors,” Harold snickered. “Do yooooooou smell that … ssssssss …. sssssound?”
I dropped my drooling companion and he fell like a heap into the pile of catnip. Something was coming. Clunk, clunk. The thunder rolled outside and the windows flashed from the lightning. The clunking grew closer and closer.
I took a step back and the rain slammed into the windows. The lightning flashed and something appeared at the end of the hallway. The dang lightning was messing up my vision!
It was as big as I was and walked on four legs. It’s head was round like a fish bowl and it banged into the walls over and over again.
“Harry!” I barked, “Run!”
Harold rolled over, rubbing himself on the nip.
The beast came forward and I barked again, warning it. I hadn’t ever bitten anything in my life, but I wasn’t going to let it get at my stoned friend. I would bite if I had to.
It stumbled and banged its head into the wall again. Clunk! I rushed forward. Maybe I could make it run away. Maybe I could …
“Ben?” I stopped, curling up a lip.
Dad enjoyed giving Ben and I dog cookies when we were … well, breathing. They came in a large plastic fish bowl, a fish bowl that was now on Ben’s head.
“What the hell Ben!?” I exclaimed, “You scared us …” Harold was asleep, “me, you scared me to death!”
“I was just sooooo hungry dude,” Ben’s voice echoed in the bowl. “Harry and I found the nip dooooood.”
The dumb yellow labrador retriever was looking out at me from the jar, his eyes dilated just like Harold’s. He would randomly lick the bottom of the bowl as if he was trying to find some remnant of flavor.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re head is in the cookie jar,” I said, cocking my head to the side.
“Dooooood,” Ben’s tongue lolled around in the bowl, “the nip gave me the munchies dude.”
I blinked. Seriously?
“Ben, catnip doesn’t affect dogs,” I explained.
Ben looked at me through the bottom of the cookie bowl, “Then why do I have the munchies huh?”
“You’re fat Ben,” I groaned, “Being fat gave you the munchies.” Rolling my eyes I padded back to my couch.
“Um,” Ben followed me, “Can … can you get this thing off my head?”
I turned in a circle twice to be sure I wouldn’t lay down on anything and looked up at him, “I don’t have thumbs Ben, you’re on your own.”
The patter of rain lulled me into a gentle sleep while Harold slept off his nip and Ben developed an appreciation that humans had thumbs.