Potbull Terrier

The SPCA made an error on the adoption papers when they listed Elvis as a pitbull cross. Eight years I’ve lived with my dog – I never would have guessed he was a dope-head.

On one of our usual routes this morning Elvis became fixated on a coupla young guys sitting in a big-ass truck parked in an empty lot. They made the mistake of acknowledging his presence and he insisted on dragging me over to say hello. The fella on the passenger side came out of the truck to give Elvis a good side-thumping. Elvis, however, was more preoccupied with what was in the truck.

The rear window on the passenger side rolled down to reveal a third gent, coffee cup in hand. Thinking they were indulging in mid-Saturday-morning coffee and donuts I said, “Ahh, he thinks you’ve got something”, to which one of the guys replied, “Oh, we’ve got something, alright!” His response made the other two chortle and chuckle.

Passenger One opened the door to get back in but before you could say “Mary Jane” Elvis scrambled up the running board and proceeded to comfortably settle himself in the front seat. Through the open door I could see a square of aluminum foil with a large quantity of herbage balanced on the center armrest. Elvis was intensely interested. If the driver would have been only seconds slower in whisking away his precious cargo, I would have had three very disappointed young men and one pitbull with an extreme case of the munchies on my hands.

Much to Elvis’ reluctance – and their relief – I managed to yoink Elvis out of the truck and everyone’s life went back to regularly scheduled programming.

Now every time I say, “Need some pot?” Elvis wags.

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