Thirteen years ago, when I was first introduced to my sister Pocket, after three dogs in four years joined our family then inexplicably went to the Bridge at a young age (something that made people wonder if it was my doing because I wanted my parents to myself and was certainly something I was capable of) I was sure trembly little Pocket with the leaky bladder, and lousy digestion would quickly join them.
Remarkably Pocket has had a longer mortal life span than I did, although she has spent a quarter of that time trembling.
As with all of us, Pocket’s physical and psychological issues have been exacerbated as she enters her super senior years. Recently, while at the groomer, Pocket shrieked whenever the electric trimmer came near her. Our long-time groomer suggested some anxiety medication for Pocket and lots of wine for herself. While my parents were discussing what to do, I paid Pocket a dream visit and asked her why she was so nervous.
“I can’t see or hear, as well as I used to,” she answered. “I don’t know what the groomer is doing with the trimmer. She is the one who flew to Florida to bring River to Massachusetts, and they could be in league together in a plot to kill me.” It certainly was plausible.
I had a better idea than medication. During a dream visit, I suggested CBD oil. The next day I found the perfect apothecary a few towns over operated by two woke Willie Wonkas who recommended a specially made oil for Pocket, along with treats. I suggested River get some, too, as she can quickly go from interested tourist to MAGA supporter in the Capitol rotunda. That day a helicopter drop of CBD would have changed an insurrection to a bunch of people saying: “Whatever man, don’t matter who the president is, let’s go to Aunt Annie’s for a pretzel.”
I left Pocket alone for a week. When I floated down to see her, she was curled up in her chair on a red blanket. I had to say her name twice to get her attention. She looked up, smiled, and said, “Hey, Foley,” then put her head down.
I asked her if the CBD oil was working. “Dude, I don’t think so. I really can’t tell because I have been sleeping 22 hours a day. Outside of that, my motto is, you got to keep on living. L I V I N.”
I asked her how River was doing. “Nothing affects her. She can fall asleep in a poppy field that caught on fire, and she wouldn’t change.” At least Pocket’s CBD oil made her wiser. I have noticed that River’s need to attack Pocket when startled from a sound sleep is lessening either because the oil is working on her or Pocket’s calmer demeanor is not threatening.
Pocket stood and stretched. “The old bones are feeling better,” she said. “Do you have a drop of oil?” I told her I didn’t. “It would be a lot cooler if you did,” Pocket said. “My buzz is getting harshed. Gotta hit mom up for a drop at supper. I might have to look out the window and bark at nothing hysterically. The man always falls for that.”
I don’t know if the oil will lessen Pocket’s fear at the groomer, but with her new attitude, maybe you should just let her hair grow out, become a beatnik, and you can all move to a commune.
And keep on L I V I N.