She drove to her old neighborhood to visit her dog. Her sweet little Feather-Foo who now lives with her ex. Her sweet little Feather-Foo who broke into the ex’s tenant’s cabin three days ago and stole a pot cookie. A marijuana cookie. She didn’t just steal it, she ate it. Poor little Feather Foo has been in bed ever since. Day one she was very near comatose, could barely lift her head. Day two slightly better. Day three she is more energetic, can wag her tail again, but will not get up when asked if she wants to go for a walk, a question which normally sends her into spastic furry circles. The internet says she will survive, she will be fine, give her time and water.
She gives Feather lots of pats and sympathetic words, says goodbye to the teenager, and walks south. Two houses down, old Mercedes station wagon out front, she opens a little half gate, knocks on a door. Raucous laughter, greetings. Mobiles hanging, seaweed, rocks, pinecones. Wild mushroom soup, hot and spicy, broccoli and red peppers. A mushroom cookie, Candy Caps, not psychedelic, sweet and earthy. More laughter, warm by the fire. Stories of dogs they’ve known who survived eating marijuana. Don’t worry, they tell her, she’ll be just fine. She is given a necklace, made of abalone shell, seaweed, and purple glass beads. “I’ll wear it every day.”