I Drug You Because I Love You
Our elderly pit bull, Chubby, is showing his age. His sad little eyes look cataract-y, his muzzle is white, and he spends more time lying in the sun than running the fields. As he gets older, I notice that he seems more anxious and whines for inexplicable reasons. I have been giving him Dasuquin for his joint health, and this has made a huge difference for him. Along with the Dasuquin, I have started giving him CBD oil for canines. I bought the CBD oil at the last Ligonier Market from a very informative and reputable vendor. The CBD oil seems to help with Chubby’s anxiety and whining. However, my smart Chubby-Bubby has turned into a treat snob. I have to put the oil on a piece of bread and then hide the bread in a bit of meat for him to take it.
As we sat eating dinner last night, I told The Bibbed Wonder and The Bean about my sneaky tactics to get our dog to take his medicine. Eric patted Chubby on the head and told him he was not alone, that I drugged him too. Of course, The Bean wanted to know what her dad was talking about, so Eric went into one of his comedy routines. He exaggerates and makes things up, but there is an element of truth to his story. You see, dear reader, my husband, has a genuine fear of flying. When he worked for a gasfield tech company, he was required to fly to Oklahoma on several occasions.
The first time he flew to Oklahoma for his interview, he flew alone. As he sat sweating profusely, white knuckles clasping the arms of his seat, with his eyes closed, saying silent prayers, the little old lady who had been seated beside him held his hand. She called him honey and repeatedly told him he would be okay, and reminded him to breathe. I, of course, found this hilarious. However, after flying with him on a turbulent flight to Oklahoma several months later, I experienced his fear of flying and saw it was no laughing matter.
Fast forward to the following year. Once again, it was time for us to fly to Oklahoma for the annual Christmas party. With our formal attire packed and anticipation for an evening out without a bean growing, so was Eric’s anxiety over flying. He began fretting a month in advance. At first, there were little comments, half-hearted jokes, and a bit of fretting. As the day of our flight grew nearer and nearer, so did his fear. I noticed he was up earlier and earlier. Lack of sleep usually happens when he is stressing about something. When I asked what was wrong, he nearly bit my head off. Snapping angrily that he did not want to attend “this stupid party” and that it was a waste of resources to make everyone fly to Oklahoma. He could stay home and be perfectly happy with a Christmas card.
When my dad was dying, my doctor had prescribed Xanax for me to take on the terrible days when I felt as though I were going to crawl out of my skin. I had kept the prescription and offered to have it filled to help ease Eric’s anxiety. Of course, he was outraged that I even made the offer. The man doesn’t even take ibuprofen when he is sick or aching. I went ahead and had it filled anyhow. I’m like a boy scout, always ready. On the day of the flight, he and his co-worker had a few drinks at the airport bar, preferring Jack Daniels over an anti-anxiety pill. Eric continued to have the bartender refill his glass until his hat was askew, his glasses were crooked, and he had a big goofy grin plastered onto his face. Sigh.
Although giggling like a schoolgirl and slurring his speech, he was definitely relaxed. Once we boarded, we settled into our seats, and he was asleep and snoring before the plane took off. Initially, I thought this was not a bad thing. Until he continued to snore, began to drool, and pass gas. Yes, you read that correctly; he passed gas while in his drunken stupor. Before he had consumed half a bottle of Jack Daniels, he had eaten an appetizer platter from the airport Appleby’s. Neither bodes well for his gastrointestinal tract alone, but when combined, it becomes noxious and lethal. As he sat stewing in his drunken coma and foul odor, I poked him. He responded with a rumbling fart; I’m sure those around him could hear. When I got no response, I pinched him.
He awoke with a start and looked at me with blurry eyes. He then drunk whispered, “It smells like sh** in here! Some a**hole is farting! Insert drunken giggle; It’s my a**hole!” I was horrified, to say the least. I pinched him again but harder and hissed, “Dammit, Eric!” He yelped in pain, and drunk whispered, “Stop pinching me, devil woman!” and went back to snoring and farting. I noticed the side-eye from our unfortunate seatmate, mouthed an apology, and tried to disappear into my seat. Sigh.
Rather than relive that drunken horror story, the day of our return flight, I waited until Eric was in the shower, ordered him a cup of coffee, and slipped two Xanax into his drink. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I held my breath the entire taxi ride to the airport and was relieved when he very calmly asked what I had used to drug him? I merely smiled and said, “I didn’t do anything. You’re so paranoid!” Our flight home was without incident. He walked around in a drugged, zen-like state. He didn’t fret, sweat, or fart and slept the entire flight.
It took me years to admit I drugged him. Once I confessed, he then began to tell people we got married because I slipped him a roofy, and he woke up hitched. Sigh. There is never a dull moment with this man. So yes, dear reader, I drug my dog and my husband to ease their anxiety. Eric told me it’s illegal for me to drug him without his consent. My response is I am saving society, the TSA, and our flight mates from his bad behavior. I’m also protecting myself from complete embarrassment.
As always, dear reader, stay safe, be smart, don’t get drunk and fly, and keep washing your hands.