Pet Dispensary

____________________________________________________________ Out
of weed, out of pets, and out of luck at the local medical
marijuana veterinary clinic, Andrew and Amanda search for a way
to get high. Love ensues.
_____________________________________________________________

“Polly wants a Cannacracker!”

I rolled over for the umpteenth time.

“Polly wants a Cannacracker!”

I breathed deep and tried to control my rage. Nothing was left

to distract me. We had already had repeated sex. The volume on
the television was loud enough to wake up the neighbors.

“Polly wants a Cannacracker, you lazy piece of shit!”

It was my girlfriend’s parrot, not mine. We had made the

mistake of taking it to the veterinary medical marijuana clinic
to get our THC fix. We claimed it had a broken wing and didn’t
sleep well. The vet prescribed cannabis infused parrot
crackers. Of course, we ate the majority of them, but we
thought it would be funny to get the bird high. It was uncanny
how fast the bird got addicted to the things, and how quickly
his vocabulary improved. Now we were paying the price.

“Get the fuck out of bed! Polly wants a fucking Cannacracker!”

“Die, you fucking canary!” I screamed as I grabbed a seven iron

out of my golf bag and decapitated the tweeter with one powerful
stroke.
“He wasn’t a canary, you asshole.” Amanda rolled out of the
bed. Her hair was tangled but still hung down past her bare
bottom. I loved her, and she loved me, but this was going to be
a hard one to smooth over. “Besides, that bird was our last
hook up at the pet dispensary.”

That really drove home the rashness of my behavior. We had used

several of our pets to procure cannabis from the pet dispensary.
It was a common ploy in West Kentucky, where the authorities had
agreed to open medical marijuana veterinary dispensaries as a
test before opening the market for humans. But oddly, our pets
kept on dying, and Polly was our last connection.

“Shit, Amanda. I’m so sorry.” We both knew I wasn’t

apologizing for the sake of the bird.

“If you can’t get me some weed by noon, it’s all over.” Amanda
walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

I sulked out of bed and went to the kitchen for a bowl of

Captain Krunch. The kitchen table was cluttered with dirty
coffee cups and cereal bowls half full of stale milk. In the
center sat a pumpkin that we had brought home from the store to
carve for Halloween. Its bright orange flanks were marred by a
lumpy spot where a fungus must have attacked its hide.
“Don’t worry, Amanda. I’ve got an idea.” I yelled toward the
bathroom. “Get your clothes on! We’re heading for Dr.
Headson’s!”

Dr. Headson’s Veterinary MMJ Clinic would make a circus tent

look tame in comparison. All of the pet owners were under the
age of 25, and none of them knew how to handle their so called
pets. It was obvious that most of the animals were recent
acquisitions from the humane society. A schnauzer with three
legs and one ear urinated on the carpet while his owner mildly
scolded, “You cut that out...you.” Apparently he hadn’t even
named it. Another young man with unruly hair held a fish bowl
that contained two male Siamese fighting fish that were savagely
mauling each other. He was after “Magic Dust,” which is
snortable THC infused fish food.

“Andrew and Amanda…” called the receptionist, who appeared to

be holding up under the waiting room mayhem. She was munching
on a small bag of medicated rabbit pellets.

I picked up the large grocery bag on the chair beside me and we

walked through a doorway into Dr. Headson’s consultation room.

Dr. Headson sat in a lazy chair smoking a pipe and watching a

youtube video on his laptop. The small speakers broadcast
kitten meows and the squeals of delight of small children. He
wore dark glasses and we could not tell whether he was looking
at us when he spoke. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Well…” I said, as Amanda and I looked at each other and held

hands with practiced concern, “Our pet pumpkin has developed a
skin disorder.”

This seemed to get Dr. Headson’s attention. He sat forward in

his seat. “Did you say pet pumpkin?”

“Yes, Doctor,” I said as I removed the grocery bag covering the

pumpkin from our kitchen.

“What’s his name?” asked Dr. Headson as he stood up and walked

over to the examination table where I had placed “Jack-O,” our
would-be pet. He felt the rough lump and drew a circle around
it with a magic marker. He made other markings and circles on
all sides of the pumpkin. He pulled out his stethoscope and
listened for its heartbeat.

Amanda and I looked at each other embarrassedly.

“Yes.” Pronounced Dr. Headson. “Jack-O appears to be suffering

from Phytophthora blight.”
“We know it’s probably terminal, but we were hoping that maybe
you could prescribe something? Some kind of whipped cream, or
maybe a pie crust?” I offered. “You know...just to take the
edge off?”

Dr. Headson shook his head. “No, this case is definitely

surgical. We need to cut into this pumpkin right away.” He
stepped to the door and called out, “Nurse! Two carving knives
and a candle!”

Dr. Headson dimmed the lights and found the song “Monster Mash”
on youtube. The nurse arrived with the knives and handed them
to Amanda and I. She popped a rabbit pellet in each of our
mouths, turned curtly, and left the room.

“Pumpkin surgery is one of the most sensuous of all operational

procedures.” said the head of Dr. Headson, illuminated from the
light of his laptop screen. “Choose your cuts wisely, and the
greatest of delights shall ensue.”

Amanda and I looked at each other. I don’t know if it was the

rabbit pellet, the low lighting, or the Monster Mash music, but
the time seemed just right.

“Amanda, will you marry me?” I said, as I plunged my knife

deep into Jack-0’s still-beating pumpkin heart.