Shawn Cody

New Member
FYI: Reposting this story as my last submittal was removed due to subtle reference to my website. If anyone wants to know where they can read more of my stories, just ask.


If your dog ate a half pound of your prized stash, what would you do?


This is one of my favorite all-time rides as it still makes me laugh to think of it. I tell it often to my passengers who ask.

A Lyft request came in early evening one Friday, in the Japantown district of San Jose. As I’m heading to the destination, my phone rings, and the soon-to-be passenger asks, “Do you mind if I bring my dog in the car?”

I happen to love dogs, and, assuming it’s not a Great Dane, will most certainly oblige. I have nothing against Great Danes, but a dog of this size doesn’t fit too well into a Prius with passengers.

“Of course,” I happily replied and followed my GPS to the destination. Downtown is my home base, so navigating there was a painless exercise.

I pulled up to a large apartment complex and parked. Most passengers take a minute or two longer on weekends, as there are typically more passengers per trip or a last-minute cocktail that needs swallowing before the ride. My patience has become zen-like as I’ve driven more miles. Within reason that is.

Weekend nights can generate almost any kind of user, so I really had no expectations. As I was checking my emails, I was startled by a noise only a large crowd can generate. Close to 50 people filtered out of the building. Not expecting my passengers to come out of this entourage, a young couple did finally emerge and began walking slowly to my car, small Chihuahua in hand. As the two got in, the unmistakable smell of pot permeated the car. This scenario is not unusual these days, as there are numerous dispensaries on what seems like every block in San Jose.

Tiffany and Brad were typical millennials, both in their late twenties. Tiffany was a cute petite blonde, with ripped jeans, halter top, and bubbly personality. Brad was a more reserved, complete with jeans, black t-shirt, and converse high tops. He also had a signature unkempt beard, the preferred fashion statement for men his age.

Brad was holding the dog carefully, petting it, and speaking in the most gingerly voice,“It’s ok Riley. It’s ok.”

This was strange. Most people don’t speak so delicately to their animals, so I knew something was off. I turned to look at my little passenger and then their dog, and observed the most unenthusiastic animal I have ever seen. No tail wagging, no expression. Once settled, I addressed them with my standard greeting, reserved for all but the very young and very old, “Hi guys, how’s it going?”

Tiffany was very friendly and spoke up immediately. “We’re...awesome...but...Riley...is...not...so...well.”

Ordinarily, this would prompt an immediate qualifying question, but the deliberateness of her words made me stop for a moment. To say this girl’s speech was slow was generous. If you say M-O-L-A-S-S-E-S as slowly as you can, you will get the gist.

Shaking my head in confusion, I continued, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, what’s wrong with little guy?”

Tiffany paused, as if she didn’t understand the question or perhaps forgot the topic. Moments later I would realize it was probably the latter of the two. After what seemed like a minute, she blurted out, in a louder tone than required in a small car, “OK, I CONFESS!”

I immediately start laughing and replied,“What are you confessing?”

“We are really high and can’t drive, she said in a lazy drawl.“That’s why we called you.”

In reality, the pair was more than stoned, they were in a haze. I can recall a few of my early high school days, operating in such a green fog. This severely intoxicated state comes from smoking large quantities of marijuana in a very short time period.

As I casually looked into my rear view mirror, I met two sets of bloodshot eyes, a scarlet hue Bob Marley would be proud of. This would explain the girl’s sluggish tempo.

‘No worries,” I said snickering. “You did the right thing, you called Lyft. I drive people every day in some state of intoxication. That’s why I am here.”

Undeterred, Tiffany continued. “No, you don’t understand. See that big crowd right there?”

“Sure,” I said.

“We were having a party with all our friends, and everybody was having a great time. We had a big bag of party materials for the group, enough for everyone. Suddenly we heard yelling from the back room, and people start calling us. We immediately ran back and into one of our friends, who began apologizing to us. We found our little guy was walking in circles, but then he just fell over. He wouldn’t move and just laid there!”

Brad finished the story with a disgusted tone, “The damn dog ate our stash!”

My eyes darted from the couple, to the dog, then back at the couple. Looking at Riley, he looked remarkably like them: heavy eyelids, bloodshot eyes, and listless. Riley’s tongue was hanging out of his expressionless mouth and all four of his legs splayed out on his owner’s lap. Think of a canine version of Cheech Marin in Up in Smoke, and you will have the picture. The strange situation was quickly becoming crystal clear.

“He ate the entire bag?” I asked.

“About half of it,” Tiffany replied.

“Friggin dog ate our stash,” Brad mumbled again, in that same disgruntled tone. I snickered but was trying to hold it together.

My mind sometimes works in twisted ways. For some reason, all I could think of at the moment was Scooby-Doo saying “Rut Roh, Scooby ate the wrong snack!” I am starting to giggle out loud now, which in retrospect, was totally inappropriate considering the circumstances. However, I really couldn’t help myself.

“Oh my god, are you saying both canine and owners are totally wasted?” I asked, trying hard to suppress my laughter.

The couple answered simultaneously, “YEP!”

The car erupted with laughter. Here we are, driving down the roads in San Jose, hysterical to the point of tears. It must have been some scene if you were a passing car. It’s a good thing a Highway Patrol did not pull up to us at a stoplight, or we would have surely been pulled over. One look at us, combined with the unmistakable aroma of ganja, and we would all have been explaining to the officer for the next twenty minutes!

Nervous silence interrupted the good mood, as we simultaneously realized that Riley was likely seeing colors at this stage. I realized my faux pas at the moment and quickly apologized, “I’m really sorry guys. I am not laughing at you and Riley, just the situation. This is one of the most unusual rides I have ever been on.”

My comment must have helped relax Riley’s owners, as we all laughed again. Tiffany alleviated my concern with, “It’s all good, us too. We just want to make sure Riley is ok.”

“So where are we headed?” I asked, as the software often lists only the address of the destination, not the name.

“The vet,” they both answered.

So off we drove to the doggy doctor, who I’m sure also had to restrain himself from laughter as the trio walked into his examining room. I can only imagine the challenge the two owners had, trying to fill out the registration paperwork. In the end, Riley likely fared just fine after getting the THC pumped out of his little stomach. It’s a shame they couldn’t have done the same procedure for Riley’s owners!

What do dogs dream of when they are high as a kite? A Fred Flintstone-sized bone or an all-you-can-eat bacon bar? We will never know Riley’s fate, but assuming he made it through, he had a helluva tale to tell his dog buddies! What a great trip it was.









 
Top