“There.” Smith wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s not as pale as Aidan, but he’s definitely a shade or two greener. “Now it’s your turn. The both of you.”
“Why me?” I ask.
“Because it’s rude to bring food and not eat it.” Smith lifts his brow and holds out his partially eaten cookie to me. “And solidarity.”
“Fine.”
Aidan and I cheers each other unenthusiastically. To my surprise, he takes a bite almost immediately. I, on the other hand, take a few extra moments to really allow the dread of eating dog food sink in. Smith clears his throat and gives me a look that I take to mean there will be no avoiding this cookie for the foreseeable future. I press it to my lips and gingerly take a bite.
The cookie turns into a paste on my tongue that remarkably manages to be both dry and gummy at the same time. The flavor isn’t toffee as the smell of the baked good suggests. It’s more like if toffee and garden soil had a love child. I assume the earthiness comes from the CBD or hemp or whatever marijuana-derived substance is legal to feed to a geriatric Pomeranian. The toffee flavoring tastes like it came from the same factory that makes cough medicine.
Aidan’s watching me as if my reaction to consuming the cookie will directly affect his ability to keep eating his. I want nothing more than to roll down the window and spit the cookie glue now attaching itself to the roof of my mouth into the supposed gale-force winds that have caused Aidan’s panic to escalate. But that’s not an option. The only option if I want to restore any sense of calm in this van is to swallow. I force myself to do it, and Aidan follows suit.
“Are you feeling calmer?” Aidan asks.
“You know”—I take a long swig of water from one of the complimentary bottles tucked into the side-door pocket—“not really. I suspect it takes a little while, though. After all, it’s a cookie, not a bong.”
Not that I’m personally familiar with either.
“Have another bite.” Smith smirks, fighting back laughter. “Both of you. Come on. Bottoms up.”
“After you.” I shove the cookie half an inch away from his face. “Solidarity. You said it yourself.”
The van shakes from a sudden burst of wind. Rain smacks against the windows harder and faster, making it impossible to see anything but the faint glow of brake lights around us, the only reminder that we’re not on this bridge alone. Aidan makes a whimpering sound, and in that moment, Smith and I both know what must be done.
“Bottoms up, boys.” I grab the remaining two dog biscuits from my purse. “Bottoms up.”
It takes ten minutes to finish our doggy weed cookies. Eleven minutes for me to regret suggesting that any human ever consume them, and, I suspect, a lifetime for me to ever get the god-awful taste of toffee-flavored dirt out of my mouth. For the record, I don’t feel any calmer. I would venture to say my anxiety has actually increased since remembering one very crucial detail about Ozzie’s experience with Barkie’s Baked Goods for Dogs.
“I think these might have some laxative properties,” I whisper to Smith as I struggle to read the ingredients on what’s left of the paper bag. “Ozzie always seems to have to go after eating them.”
We’ve claimed the front two seats of the van to give Aidan a little peace and quiet in the back. The dogs are snuggled into the space between our seats. A little elevator jazz à la Kenny G plays softly on the radio, and the AC is blowing cool air. If this combination doesn’t put Aidan to sleep, it will surely knock me out, which at this point, might be preferable.
“I refuse to believe you’re being serious.” Smith fiddles with his phone, trying to force it to pick up service. “That just seems like a horrible design flaw. What good is a calm dog if he poops all over the place?”
“I didn’t say he poops all over the place,” I hiss. “I just mean that he always has to go afterward.”
“I think the dog weed is making you paranoid.”
“I’m not paranoid. I would just prefer to know whether we’re all going to need to use the bathroom in the next hour or so.”
“Hey, do you remember that Thanksgiving when we were in high school?” Smith’s lips curl into a smile. “You stole that disgusting alcohol from your dad’s liquor cabinet. What was that stuff?”
“Vermouth. Worst alcohol on the planet.” I nod. “And yes, I remember that Thanksgiving.” I remember it like it was yesterday.