The dogs at Wild Dingo got tanked the other day. For reals. I slipped them the 'ole mickey in their morning snack.
The big move to CH is now days away and I'm busy preparing. I don't plan on narc-ing them up for the plane ride over the east pond. Airline regulations do not permit it and it is not recommended by most vets. But we're landing in Zurich, not Geneva, so we'll have a 4-hour drive to the new place. And we'll have a driver. And because I know my cracked-out dog better than anyone, I know one thing: he can be unbearable in the car, a freak, a paranoid on crack. And I could not put an unsuspecting driver through his howels, cries and panic attacks for four straight hours. So I had my vet prescribe him a narc for the drive home, just in case. I had to test it out to make sure they didn't have any bad reactions.
"Princess, how come the patio is spinning?"
Juno, the little stoner, didn't seem to mind being toasted. In fact, other than the munchies (she has the munchies whether she's stoned or not), she pretty much chilled out and enjoyed the trip. Loki on the other hand, of course panicked. He came to me, stumbling with those sad eyes wondering, "Why do I feel so funny Mom?" I can't believe he never smoked out. I mean, he lived on the streets of Taiwan. For dog's sake, you'd think he would have ran with some stoner punks.
"WTF is going on here? How come I feel like I'm floating?"
"Hey big boy, how about you go raid the cabinets for some salty chips, chewy beef pizzles and a cold milk shake?"
"WTF Princess? I don't think I can make my paws work. "
"Oh cheeses, don't tell me you never got hammered before."
"What's a hammer got to do with this? My legs feel like jello."
"Freaky. I think I can see my brains."
The dog's health certificates are completed, signed and stamped by the USDA. Their crates are prepared, Mr. Wild Dingo is on his way home and they're ready to rock and roll. Next week is pack and go.
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