Sunday, July 19, 2009

Fatherhood: in Two Vignettes


My Dad drove me to the vet last week. “Depressed” doesn’t even begin to cover my mood at the time. I loved my Universitytown vet and, more importantly, they loved Milo. He’s been going there since he was just a mangy fur-baby, climbing on the vet’s head and jumping into cupboards and galloping through the hallways like a wolf with two or three vet-techs chasing behind him.

They always gave him treats and a little bandana after every visit, which he would immediately rip off and destroy, and then attack me out of anger for making him wear it.
So, I was pretty upset at the prospect of finding a new vet for my monster. Plus, you know, the whole officially moving on from my life with FauxHawk part didn’t help.

I found a vet pretty close to my apartment. My Dad drove me so that I wouldn’t be that girl walking 10 blocks down Main Street with a cat in a giant purple carrier. He walked me into the office, took one look at the old man in the waiting room holding a half-dead cat under his arm, and said he was going to go for a walk.

I met my Dad 30 minutes later, and I had a very angry and now rabies-free cat jumping around in his carrier. My Dad was waving around some kind of pamphlet and talking really fast. It turns out, in the 30 minutes that I set him free in my neighbourhood, he had found a pot shop. I’ve lived here for a year and didn’t know one existed.

I took a look at the pamphlet in his excited hands. It was a seed order form. My Dad is now going to buy pot seeds and grow his own, maybe at his friend’s cottage.

Maybe to other people this would sound awesome, but I don’t feel like I’m at the point yet where I can ask my Dad for some of his home-grown pot.

Then he took me to Starbucks and bought me a different kind of drug, and took me back home.


TigerCat and I have planned a camping trip for the long weekend coming up. It’s going to be ridiculous. I can’t even tell you how happy I am at the prospect of drinking in the woods and eating cheese dogs until I puke. I’ll probably wind up setting my hair on fire and getting poison ivy on my muffin, but I’m still looking forward to it.

The other day I told my Dad about our upcoming assventure. His response?

Dad: Do you need, you know, any stuff?
ThePeach: Um...stuff?
Dad: Weed, or maybe Hash. I can get you either. Not that I, you know, sell the stuff, but I have people.
ThePeach:…you want to sell your daughter Hash?
Dad: I’m just saying that I can.

When did this happen? When did he get this comfortable with me? I always suspected he was a pot-head, like that time I called him and he was watching Family Guy and talking about time travel. Or that time I stayed at his place and he came home at 1am with the reddest eyes I’ve ever seen on a living human and tried to make me order him a pizza. But he’s never been this open about it.

It’s kind of uncomfortable. I can’t decide if my Dad is awesome or if I should call social services.

Also, hash is a big NO. The first and only time I smoked hash I wound up having an out of body experience and came to in the midst of gorging on some strange girl’s birthday cake in my dorm. Like, I was sitting in the middle of her birthday party and polishing off my fourth piece while everyone just kind of stared at me with their mouths wide open. I avoided the common room after that.

Anyway, maybe I’ll call my Dad tonight and see if he wants to drive me to the grocery store. I’m out of toilet paper.

I’ve been using Kleenex for 3 days.


1 comment:

Sonya said...

Why did you ever pay for pot in loonies outside our building when you have *this* connection?