My dog got high, but it’s not my fault.

So high.

Hopefully, you’ll believe me when I say that, because the vet did not. Neither did my husband as he turned to me in the vet’s office and said, “Do you have weed in the house?” to which I replied, “No, Officer. I’ve never bought weed.” I wasn’t just being cheeky. I’m married to a cop. (Okay, I was being a little cheeky.)

Let me back up, though.

About three weeks before, I made a run by Tomlinson’s, an Austin-based pet store with stuff like hand-woven hemp collars and artisan organic grass-fed avocado biscuits in the shape of another dog’s butthole or whatever. Needless to say, I love this place. It’s like a physical representation of the typical Austinite’s psyche. There are just strays dogs wandering around with names like Che and Ginsberg that have more rights than I, a human woman, do. I ended up adopting one of them, and she’s flopped on the floor next to me, being utterly useless, as I write this, but that’s a story for another time. She’s not the one that got high.

So I’m at Tomlinson’s and I buy a 50-pound bag of free-range water buffalo kibbles for the 110 pounds of dog waiting at home, and the clerk offers to carry it out to the car for me, so I say, “Sure, stranger. Prove your brute strength and then follow me out to my car.” My judgment is on point, is what I’m saying.