Meditations on Getting my Cat Stoned


The dog loves to play. This is hindered by the fact that the cat hates the dog, everything about the dog, and all things the dog represents and embodies. The cat voices this distaste with an almost constant meowing that sends my blood pressure through the stratosphere.

Oh, this wouldn’t be so bad (I can always drink) except the cat comes equipped with scimitar-like claws and the dog has no snout. My nightmare machine produces lots of clashes between those claws and my dog’s unprotected eyes. We have considered getting the dog a pair of goggles, but then that would raise lots of internal questions about who I have become as a person that I’d rather avoid right now. Instead, I brought the cat to the vet. The veterinarian found that the cat has a minor back problem and suggested CBD (cannabis) oil to help her relax and to not be such an asshole.

It’s an unusual event leaving a vet’s office with a bottle of cannabis oil for your cat. I was reminded of those days in college when I’d leave a shady house with a baggie paranoid that I smelled like a skunk. I went to the grocery store and bought the cat some treats as the vet said her appetite would increase. Or, in the parlance of the lifestyle, she would get the munchies. Instinctively, I picked myself up some cookies and a can of Pringles, because you never know when you might get a contact high, or accidentally take 4-8 drops of the oil yourself.

My cat’s plane of existence rests one minor grievance away from angry and aggressive, which in this case was provided by me trying to put 4 drops of CBD oil in her mouth. Soon, I was bleeding, as I knew I would be. When she bit me, I yelled: “This will make you feel better! Trust me.”

She declined that trust, but the dog seemed pretty open to experimentation and she reached out her limbs and nibbled on my thumb. I decided against giving the dog any drops because she already exists in a state of perpetual hunger that I thought this might make her become a werewolf. And the last thing my flat needed was a werewolf, even if it were only about a foot tall.

I come up with the bright idea of putting the drops on the cat’s food (only 23.928 million of the internet people had had this idea before me). I added it to her pate and then I went to the store for some snacks. When I returned, the cat was climbing into the fridge looking for the rest of the pate. Also she was wearing a pair of tinted sunglasses and a tie-dyed shirt. She’d put on the Jerry Garcia Band and was talking to the dog about how she’d kill to hear Jerry’s collaboration with Merl Saunders.     

The cat is now a pothead. This is fine. She sleeps more and asks random questions more (What if the moon was a window for our lizard leaders to watch the earth?) Seriously? Weirdo. The cat and dog exist in a sort of uneasy détente. The dog is able to crack through the cat’s newfound mellowness with her pestering. The vet has informed me that I may need to get the cat a condo. This would give her a place totally safe from dog annoyance. I’ll stock it with snacks and make sure it’s aimed at the TV. The cat should have a pretty good life, better than most college students.    

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