Chapter Twelve: K-9

It was mid-September, 2008. My mom and I were still testing each other out. Patty G. was unsure of how far I would go in my recknlessness and rebellion, and I was unsure how far she would go in her efforts at being a normal parent. In the this mutual process of testing each other's waters a tension had fallen over the Gray home. It was a stalemate of sorts, both of us eager to find some excuse to hop out the trenches and drop artillery shells of acusation and yelling in each other's ears.

One afternoon, I hear my sister, resident canine lover, blurt out,

"We're getting a new dog!"

I was puzzled at my sister's curious emphatic outburst. It seemed we'd already got enough on our hands with Charlie, the infinite-energy wonder dog. Hell, with Charlie, we practically got three dogs for the price of one. Although dogs are clearly superior pets, did we really need another slobbery mouth to feed and more poop to scoop (specifically, more poop for me to scoop)?

Well, it's not like my family is known for rationality or thinking things through in its decision making. If it was, this blog would blow pretty hard. I had to see what was going on. If we were buying a new dog I wanted to know why, given that my student loans were (and still are) fast approaching. So I inquired my mom as to this alleged new canine member of our family unit.

"He's a drug dog."

Not many other statements have the ability to afflict such fear that I felt in that moment. I think I pretty well hid the fact that I right nearly dookied a shooter then and there. There are numerous constitutional tricks criminals can utilize, when questioned, to side-step even the most senior law enforcement officers. But if a drug dog sniffs something on you, you're toast. My mom says I squirmed like a fish out of water. Having a drug dog in the house could be a major setback to my extra-legal activities.

With this dog in the house, I wouldn't just be sleeping with the enemy. This would be like a Jew cozying up with Hitler, Goering, and the rest of the S.S. after a long day of crunching numbers and analyzing profit margins; he might as well have pre-heated the oven while he was at it. While using dogs to do law enforcement's bidding is a cruel manipulation of nature's beauty and dog's innocence, many a smoker knows that it sure is effective. And there was still more.

"His name is Toker. He's a retired police dog."

Toker? Seriously? At least I could get a chuckle out of all this. And still...

"Mary-Anne and I are starting a business where we search kid's rooms for an hourly fee. We're gonna be rich!"

Well, that's just excessive. If I was scared of a drug dog in my house, imagine the victims of these room searches. I could imagine some Johnny B. Goode coming home to a yelping dog and the sight of his stash swirling down the drain. And chances are that this Johnny B. Goode wouldn't have the balls(/stupidity) to challenge his parents, and would probably end up 'voluntarily' enterring some rehabilitation program to ease his deeply troubled, subrban-minded, and probably white, parents. Chances are if you have the means and are willing to dish out $200/hour to have some odd woman take a retired drug dog to your child's room, you're probably uptight and white. And there's probably something else wrong with you, too. Hint to parents: there are better ways of handling these things.

Even my dad had to throw his hat in on this one.

"You guys don't even take care of the one dog you have now. And your mother thinks you can take another? Man, you better not let that dog in your room (chuckles)."

These were still the times before I viewed everything my mom said through the lens of her cumpulsive lying. If this dog was actually coming to live with us, I had to be prepared.

Option One: sprinkle bits of contraband everywhere in the house. Obscure places, literally everywhere. This way the dog would bark at everything, and would be unable to acutely identify my stash. Potentially effective, but also potentially expensive.

Option Two: try to disable Toker's olfactory nerves in a way that would not cause pain or otherwise harm him. No dice, there's no known procedure that does this.

Option Three: 'Accidentally' run Toker over. This has some obvious ehtical drawbacks.

Option Four: Feed Toker some of my homemade brownies. Maybe he'd realize everything he's been missing out on, and revert to non-compliance with my mom. Even if it didn't work as I intended, it would still be a loving funny sight to see.

I would have time to mull this over. The dog wasn't coming until Thanksgiving. Allegedly. I filed away the drug dog in the back of my mind. I had more important things to stress about in the meantime. But Thanksgiving came and passed. That's not to say our Thanksgiving passed quietly or uneventfully by any means. It was nearing Christmas and I had to find out what my mom was really up to.

"So when is that drug dog coming?"

"Are you kidding? I made that up to see how you would react. And it worked! You freaked out. Why would I actually get a drug dog?"

"Are you kidding? Here's a better question: why would you actually lie about getting a drug dog so you could see how I reacted? One of these actions is definitely much more manipulative and crazy than the other."

Stuff happens. I don't know what else I was expecting on this one. The frustrating part was that she went through so much effort, fake phone calls even, just to convince me that we were getting a retired drug dog named Toker. Toker, for Christ's sake. The best part is that the whole thing seems totally normal to me now, in context with the rest of my mom's behavior. Just another day in the office, you know.