Can weed give our furry companions happier lives and more peaceful deaths?
Remember the right-wing homophobes who claimed that if we allowed gays to get married, pretty soon people would begin marrying their pets? Well, now, the damn hippies who voted to legalize the wacky weed are indeed trying to get their dogs and cats stoned! Hooked on the hound hemp! The kitty chronic!?
Companies like Seattle-based Canna-Pet and Canna Companion sell cannabinoid treats for dogs and cats—not to get them high (the hemp biscuits and capsules have very low levels of THC), but to help with joint discomfort and inflammation, and hopefully to make that yappy poodle across the street calm the fuck down.
Recently the Food and Drug Administration began cracking down on pooch-pot peddlers for some of the claims made in their marketing materials. The FDA wants phrases like “anti-cancer” and “anti-tumor” taken off Canna-Pet’s packaging, as those medical claims have not been proven.
Canna Companion, from Snohomish County, says their products are all-natural, and inhibit cancer-cell growth and reduce inflammation. Clinical trials monitored by the FDA haven’t taken place, because of course at the federal level, the testing or sale of marijuana is a felony offense—not to mention it’s hard to get Fido to fill out the post-trial questionnaire. Cats are better at giving feedback, but are prone to hissy fits in the comments section.
Similar to humans, domesticated animals have endocannabinoid systems and can potentially be physically and psychologically aided by ingesting cannabis. While industrial hemp hasn’t been proven as a puppy painkiller, many vets and owners have had success using the stuff to help pets gain weight after sicknesses and surgery, as well as to provide pain relief during end-of-life stages. Los Angeles veterinarian Doug Kramer told the Associated Press that he’s had more than 300 patients use cannabis to help everything from infections to separation anxiety to feline immunodeficiency virus to irritable-bowel syndrome (which I thought was the very definition of being a pet). Talk about skunk weed!
After giving his husky, Nikita, cannabis oils for her terminal cancer, Dr. Kramer said she gained weight and was able to live an extra six pain-free weeks before having to be euthanized. “I grew tired of euthanizing pets when I wasn’t doing everything I could to make their lives better,” Kramer noted. “I felt like I was letting them down.”
Things are going a bit too far in Nevada, where, as part of a bill to overhaul their medical-marijuana laws, state Senator Tick Segerblom proposed a Pot-for-Pets provision that would require animal owners to apply for medical-marijuana cards. Cards would be issued only if a vet wrote a detailed description of how Count Flufferton’s condition might be aided with Puppy Chow Dank. Good Lord, it’s hard enough for folks to clean up after their pets, much less register them for a Canine Cannabis Card. Feed ’em all the Purina Cheeba ya want, as far as I’m concerned—just pick up the poop!
Veterinarians agree that feeding a pet straight marijuana or blowing pot smoke in Mr. Bigglesworth’s snout is never a good idea; most companies marketing for pets are using all-natural hemp treats, cannabis oils, and glycerin tinctures that can be put into the water bowl.
Not surprisingly, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals has something to say on the matter. “Our position is that anything that can help animals,” stated President Ingrid Newkirk, “if it’s truly, properly administered in the right amount and can relieve a dog’s pain—then they should be given the same consideration that humans in pain are given.” (No comment on whether PETA gives ganja to the tens of thousands of pets they euthanize at their shelters after not finding homes for the non-rescued souls . . . )
While weed’s not a cure-all for everything; it’s also not gonna kill you (or your chronic companion). My neighbor’s golden retriever, Bailey, not only drank half a gallon of paint I had (stupidly) left out one summer day, but also chowed the brush and sponge inside it. She hurled a lovely shade of Benjamin Moore chartreuse-green for a week, but went on to live—and crap in my yard—for another decade. The bottom line is this: I don’t care if Snoopy gets high as the Red Baron on Snoop Dog Bud-Bones, just keep that pooch away from my personal stash. The steak’s for me. Lassie gets the leftovers.
This article first appeared in the Seattle Weekly.
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Higher Ground: Educating Jane
Shooting down a few anti-legalization arguments.
“They’re talking about opening a weed stand, or whatever, right next to my kids’ school,” the woman began, reaching for a plastic cup of wine during ArtWalk. “I mean, they’re already getting drunk. Now this will make a second thing we’re allowing for!”I gently reminded her that both of those things were illegal for minors, but she would have none of it.
“Seriously. The parties they go to are beyond,” she said, gazing at an out-of-this-world painting on the gallery wall. “From eighth grade on, there is alcohol at most of their socials. That’s already happening. So to add another drug that can mess up their minds . . . ”
I understood the fear she was experiencing. Parenting is terrifying. I get it; I had a teenage daughter once. (Good lord.) But one way to alleviate some of the fear about our kids having sex or smoking dope or getting shot on the playground is by clarifying some of the misinformation and having open dialogue. (That’s the theory.)
“To be honest, I’d rather have my kid on weed than alcohol, ma’am.” She was only a few years older than me, but we hadn’t been properly introduced. “I mean, alcohol kills 46,000 people a year, prescription drug ODs kill another 17,000. And let’s not forget cigarettes!” (440,000 deaths a year.) “And so when it comes to these kids drinking and driving or smoking and driving . . . I’d prefer they had cannabis.”
Jesus. I’d wanted to come off as even-handed and open-minded, and now I was advocating that the youngsters hotbox in their daddy’s Chevrolet.
“Do you have kids!?” she inquired. “It’s hard enough. I mean, the store is going to be right there. At the foot of the school!”
I didn’t want to get into the specifics of her increasingly incoherent argument—in Washington state, recreational shops must be at least 1,000 feet from schools, playgrounds, libraries, game arcades, public-transit centers, or parks. But I did feel the need to make one point.
“I’m sorry, miss—what was your name?”
“Jane.”
“Hi, Jane. Can I call you Mary Jane?” (Blank stare.) “I’m kidding. Listen, I totally agree that we should try to keep drugs away from young people.” I felt myself go into talking-points mode, but I couldn’t stop. “And I know this seems counterintuitive, but teen drug use has gone down in the states where it’s legal. That’s just a fact.”
I knew right when it came out of my mouth that it was too preachy, but I’ve learned a few things writing this column. One is that kids don’t know shit about cannabis, other than that it is, and always has been, easy to get. A new 2014 Health Use Survey shows that a significant number of 10th and 12th graders don’t believe there are risks in weekly marijuana use. (On this, they’re obviously pinheads—pot is not great for the developing brain.) It also found that parents were also clueless: Only 57 percent knew the legal age of recreational weed (as compared to 71 percent of kids), and only 63 percent understood you’re not allowed to grow it at home.
“Why make matters worse?” she railed, spilling chardonnay on my shoes. “There are already so many drugs: They take Ecstasy and prescription pills! I’m telling you—what I heard is that they walk right in and order, like a Starbucks or something.”
“Thing is, Jane, recreational-marijuana stores are not selling to high-school kids. They’re just like bars—they don’t want to get shut down for not checking IDs. Besides, whoever is selling your kid a bag of weed behind the Port-a-Pottys at Lakeside is not going to be asking if they’re 21, and there won’t be a warning label listing the THC levels.”
We stared at a painting that could have been a giant bong or a lovely vase—it kind of depended on your perspective.
“The new stuff is just so much stronger, you can OD on it,” she said with a smile-ish smirk that made me want to hug-strangle her. “I read something in the paper about synthetic marijuana killing these kids at a party in Florida.”
“Yes, and they should stop calling it marijuana. AstroTurf would be a better name, because it’s not really marijuana. Jane, there are all kinds of deadly drugs out there, but pot’s never killed anyone. Not one person.”
I was going to ask her if she’d ever tried cannabis, but could tell I’d already pushed her personal boundaries. “Have you talked to your . . . daughter, is it? About weed?” I asked meekly. “About marijuana?”
Her eyebrows would have gone higher if they could have. “Talked? To her about pot?! What would we say? I mean, she knows we don’t approve.”
“That’s great! A recent study from the UW showed that kids listen to their parents more than anyone else—even their own friends. And the ones who know their parents disapprove are way less likely to try pot.”
“Well that’s good, I guess,” she replied, looking me in the eye for the first time.
“The other thing is that talking to kids about weed works better than punishment.” A raised eyebrow. “In this study [from the UW’s School of Social Work], students who got suspended after smoking pot kept smoking pot. But if the kid gets sent to a counselor, they’re 50 percent less likely to smoke!”
“I assume you get stoned.”
I pulled the wine bottle out of the tub of ice. “I use all kinds of legal drugs, Jane,” I said, topping us off. “Takes the edge off of being a grown-up . . . ”
This article first appeared in the Seattle Weekly. -
Higher Ground: The Stusser Omnibus Marijuana Bill
A modest proposal to head off the awful Senate Bill 5052.
Last week, three U.S. senators introduced a bill that attempts to amend many of the outdated medical-marijuana conundrums at the federal level. The bill would end the prohibition of medical marijuana, reclassify the plant from its current designation as a Schedule 1 narcotic (a status that suggests no medical value and high potential for abuse), and allow for more cannabis study and research. While the bipartisan bill doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of passing, it’s a great conversation starter.Inspired by those ballsy senators—and in fear of the awful Senate Bill 5052 that is currently wending its way through Olympia—I’ve decided to take my own shot at solving Washington state’s own clusterfuck. So without further ado, I present the framework of my own Omnibus Marijuana Bill.
Let my people grow! I mean, really. Every other state that’s legalized marijuana has allowed citizens to grow for personal use, and we should too. It’s a no-brainer. Put a limit on the number of plants per person (six per adult, perhaps, or higher if used for medicinal purposes), and, like tomatoes and snap peas, allow folks to play in the garden. (Probably not a great plant for community pea patches, but fab for collective gardens for medical patients, many of whom are too sick to tend to the crop themselves.)
Regulate medical dispensaries. The state estimates that there are more than 1,000 dispensaries, operating all willy-nilly. While many are clearly fly-by-night operations that don’t check ID, a good number have been instrumental for decades in helping the medical community find strains and products and oils that help patients. So it just makes sense that any longstanding, established dispensary should be allowed to continue operating. Hell, I’ll pick a random number that can be allowed: 420.
No medical registry. The bill from Republican Sen. Ann Rivers that the state Senate just passed calls for the creation of a statewide registry for medical patients. Puh-lease. Patients don’t fear putting their names on the dotted line because they’re faking their illnesses to get cheaper weed, but because admitting to a felony at the federal level is a pretty bad idea. Patients can lose their jobs and have their children taken for this kind of admission. No registry.
Whack the taxes. Right now there’s a triple-decker tax structure in place: Recreational weed is hit with a 25 percent tax when it moves from farmer to processor, then again from processor to retailer, and again to the end customer. Pretty much everyone agrees a single tax is the best idea here—so pick a single sin-tax percentage and go with it. Too high, though, and I’m staying with my dealer.
Medical cards. Any patient with a qualified doctor who recommends (not prescribes) marijuana to alleviate suffering for terminal or debilitating conditions such as cancer, epilepsy, PTSD, and chronic pain should be allowed to purchase it tax-free at licensed medical dispensaries, just as citizens across the country (except Illinois) can receive their tax-free prescriptions for Ambien, Valium, Prozac, and whatever that purple pill is.
Free hemp now. My Omnibus Marijuana Bill is so comprehensive that I plan to roll hemp legislation into it, thus killing two buzzed birds with one stone: Legalize hemp for farming, commerce, and production, and just ignore the absurd bans on industrial hemp. Don’t be silly; the fibrous stuff doesn’t even get ya high.
Rec stores must stock medicinal products. Most of the individuals working to bring cannabis out of the shadows and into the legal mainstream were from the medical community—and riskily toiling long before the greedy Green Rush Potrepreneurs got in line for a Weed Lotto Ticket to make marijuana moolah. The least these green-lit licensees can do is stock their shelves with a small percentage of medicinal items in their inventory.
No pot, no pay. Cities and counties that ban marijuana outlets—either recreational or medical—will get absolutely no tax revenue from sales of marijuana. Period. In addition, as they are restricting both the will of the people and access for medical patients who may not be able to drive to places that do allow marijuana sales, these cities must build a FastTrack Elevated Electric Train system for their residents to travel from their homes to the nearest marijuana-friendly city.
Let’s get loungey! Pot lounges and cafes where adults can smoke marijuana are a safe and social way for folks to get fired up. Hell, even the Seattle City Attorney likes the idea. Allow for cigar lounges and smoky pool halls too! You don’t like ’em? Don’t patronize ’em! We’re not looking to be Amsterdam with a cannabis cafe on every corner—though if Howard Schultz wants to get into the franchise game, Starbuds is a damn fine name. Probably shouldn’t allow alcohol in cannabis clubs however; people get crazy on that shit.
This article first appeared in the Seattle Weekly.
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Mr. Chronic
Counterintuitive but true: Pot can make you more productive.
One of my favorite things to do is get stoned to the bejesus and clean house. And I’m not just talking about casual dusting, either; I’m talking about down on your belly, shoving the long extension vacuum tool deep under the bed and sucking up dust mites and fur balls, only to discover long-lost socks, exercise equipment, underwear (whose are those?!), and enough change to go out and buy MORE weed to smoke and then Shop-Vac the garage. In this way, stoned cleaning is a sustainable endeavor.
Hyperactive cleaning, you may say—but that’s counterintuitive! The stereotype, of course, is that smoking marijuana puts you on the couch, not wildly vacuuming under it. But like so much Reefer Madness, the clichés are all wrong. Turns out cannabis has been proven to aid in focus and concentration, as the body contains cannabinoid receptors for THC that can stimulate and modulate our brain’s neurotransmitters. In states where medical marijuana is legal, it’s even being used to treat attention-deficit disorders, replacing prescription stimulants like Adderall, Ritalin, and Concerta that have nasty side effects and withdrawal symptoms.
“Cannabis appears to treat ADD and ADHD by increasing the availability of dopamine,” noted Dr. David Bearman, who has spent 40 years looking into drug-abuse treatment and uses for medical marijuana. “This then has the same effect but is a different mechanism of action than stimulants like Ritalin (methylphenidate) and dexedrine amphetamine, which act by binding to the dopamine and interfering with the metabolic breakdown of dopamine.”
I know what the Doc’s talkin’ about! When I smoke weed, the THC gives my often scattered flea-brain laser-focus; I’m like Mr. Clean on steroids—intensely scrubbing the grout, determinedly deodorizing and disinfecting, even fire-hosing the disgusting recycling bins caked with foodstuff, wine splatter, and spaghetti sauce. Two-fisted Cannabis Clean!
“The most accepted theory about ADHD rests on the fact that about 70 percent of the brain’s function is to regulate input to the other 30 percent,” Dr. Bearman corroborates. “Basically the brain is overwhelmed with too much information coming too fast. In ADHD, the brain is cluttered with and too aware of all the nuances of a person’s daily experience.” In essence, pot can drive millions of incoming ideas out of your monkey mind, and allow you to focus on the tasks at hand—like spiderweb removal whilst listening to The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars.
For me, getting baked is like a triple espresso, with a shot of spiritual matcha chai on the side. My attitude is energetic and focused, with a little theatrical whimsy thrown in for good measure. Suddenly an overwhelming task such as organizing the jam-packed kitchen drawers becomes an important NASA mission! Run by Commander Clutter-be-Gone, the vital undertaking will be executed quickly, efficiently, and with a few odd brogue verbal commands uttered randomly throughout the exercise. High on ganja, the steps become crystal-clear: EVERYTHING must be dumped on the counter, and items slowly reintegrated into the newly labelled (and vacuumed!) drawers: Sharp Things, FSK, Expired Coupons, TupperWare, and a Catch-All drawer for rubber bands, pens, matches, odd keys, and those fawking square things you twist around a plastic bread bag. Two hours later I’ve made Martha Stewart look like a disorganized lowbrow street thug. Not only are the new drawers impeccably organized, they’ve been lined beautifully with all that excess wrapping paper I couldn’t find a place for.
Now has marijuana ever derailed my efforts at cleaning? Yes. Certainly. In fact, I once began with a toilet wand in my hand and somehow wound up naked in my living room under one of the most amazing pillow forts ever created.
Stoned cleaning sometimes leads to related but tangential tasks, such as trips to the refrigerator (more for munching than defrosting), getting lost in family photo albums, and cleaning out closets. While conducting a fashion show for my friend Julie (to determine which items needed to be given away), I began to see how truly cluttered my life had become. Who needs five baseball hats and a dozen belts? Getting rid of the weight of 1,000 unworn Tommy Bahama shirts lifted my worldly burden, and I began tossing unwanted paperweights, plastic cups, filing cabinets, and additional tchotchkes that not only were cluttering my overcrowded physical space, but, more important, my mind, man!
Chipping away at the inside of my microwave the other day, I came to another reefer-induced realization: What do I really know about this strange food-warming machine? What is a “micro-wave,” and what are the effects of molecules being radiated in this way? And why did I choose a toothbrush to clean the grit and grime when a chisel or power-washer would have been far more apt? I pulled my head out of the nuclear device, unplugged the thing, and put it on top of the ever-growing Goodwill pile, then began scrubbing the empty space on the counter.
“When it comes to clean, there’s only one Mr.”: Mr. Chronic.
Holy smokes—I think I missed a spot!
