Skippy, the Troublesome Chihuahua,

  

In relating this true story, shall we say anecdote, it must be said that this has no tie-in to anyone in our immediate community. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (except the offending dog) even though those innocent and the guilty live many hundreds of miles away.

On the occasion of the unusual event, a local yoga teacher was plying her trade giving lessons in her home studio. The participants were spread out on the floor, comfortable on their mats, and fully engaged in becoming one with their minds and bodies. Somewhat expectantly, the family’s aging Chihuahua, Skippy, drifted into the room clearly not acting its normal ankle-biting self. It was staggering and noticeably not in control of its normal physical skills.

The teacher, in a brief sideways glance, noticed the dog had dropped down into what looked like a Downward Dog position except its head was carelessly off to the side, its tongue lazily flopped out, and its front legs unnaturally splayed out in opposite directions. On a couple of occasions the miniature canine tried to rise but immediately slipped slowly back into this distorted, eyes-glazed-over, face sideward position. Clearly, the Chihuahua had a problem and the owner became concerned.

On the completion of the class, she ran the breathing, but somewhat despondent dog to the local veterinarian. Skippy was dropped off followed by a brief description of the dog’s unanticipated yoga participation, and she headed home to take care of her family. In the commotion, she called her husband, who was a local school principal, to ask him, on his return, stop by the vet’s office to discuss the prognosis of the family’s aging dog.

On his arrival, he learned the small dog had vomited only minutes after being dropped off, plopping a gooey plastic bag out on the floor. Bill was told the dog had apparently managed to swallow a plastic bag containing about a quarter ounce of marijuana buds. The bag, it turned out, had been punctured by the dog’s aggressive and excited chewing, so even though the entire plastic container had also been swallowed, the active chemicals of the weed had in time, seeped out, leaving the canine visibly impaired, to say the least. The glassy-eyed dog was simply stoned to the nines. The school principal initially was relieved knowing the dog, a favorite of his wife, was going to be OK after it had cleansed itself of the exotic chemicals.

The principal, in his mid-forties, had maintained a ponytail for all of his adult life, not so much as a statement of his affiliation, but rather it was just his choice. The local parents he served were simply oblivious to it because his performance had always been exemplary--- he was not some tipped-over hippy of ill repute. On his initial entry into the vet clinic, he had noticed the mother of one of his students was a receptionist at the front desk. So, with the still-visible plastic bag sitting on the table, thoughts began running through his head how this was going to be explained, knowing full well that in this small town the story of the stoned Chihuahua was going to be travelling about with considerable velocity.

In his mind, he realized it almost did not matter what excuse he might find, nothing was going to be believed because, that is just the way things go and people love colorful gossip.

He left the clinic after being told the dog should remain in house until it recovered, reasoning there may be lasting effects----such as the dog just staring at the wall and drooling for the rest of its life. It was reasoned that instead of running around biting peoples ankles and senselessly snarling,  it would lay about looking for handouts, barking in low tones, constantly eating all the snacks it could find, maybe even learning to look at the family with half-closed eyes and implying it just wanted to say things like, “That is really cool, dude. Like, just chill”.

On his return home, numerous things ran through his mind but mostly he wanted to know where the Marijuana came from because, in truth, it was not his, his wife’s, his kid’s, or anybody that had come to the house.

Being a Chihuahua, maybe it had been a trafficker from Mexico---no, they had had the dog for years and it wasn’t much for long travel. The dog did like to get loose and wander about the neighborhood, so that must have been the issue, and source. It was then he realized that next door there was a house full of Rastafarians who had been known to revel in the pleasures of the weed. Obviously, the dog had drifted over there and managed to score, by scrounging, the quarter-ounce, and then, glutton that it was, ate the entire thing in one session. 

Satisfied he was off the hook, and had a reasonable response to any inquires, two days later he returned to the clinic to retrieve the now cleansed canine. He was not sure the dog would ever again be normal, and he also was not sure he would be able to walk into the vet’s office with a straight face but he felt vindicated due to his analysis of the neighbor’s collusion in the episode. The minute he confidently walked into the clinic on the appointed hour, he noticed every employee was, in fact, positioned in the waiting room, all smiling. “Hey, Bill. Have any heroin laying around?” came out of the vet’s mouth.

So what is the moral of the story?

Post Script:  Skippy is a real dog, a beloved family dog but two days after writing this piece Skippy was hit by a vehicle and killed. He was old and not under the influence of any known drug. 

Gateway Mushrooms May Column Spirit

Gateway Mushroom

With some trepidation, I am exposing a situation here that possibly should be left alone as it is controversial. However, after serious consideration, and the fact the morel season is over, I feel I can wade in to this quagmire without having my life threatened, or hopefully not having my fingers cut off by desperados. This impending situation involves amateur, sometimes illusive, often clandestine, secretive mycologists that are now inhabiting the forests under dead and dying apple trees and diseased elms.

While these camo-upped individuals of both male and female persuasions, and clearly every race known to the hominid species, and that includes Norwegians, are marauding the secretive forests of Wisconsin, they have now taken to the streets of some of our larger metropolitan cities, including the greater Amherst area.

It wasn’t that long ago when a person could walk the streets with a fresh-found, tie-dyed tote bag full of morels and not be noticed or even suspected. Now, however, these, these disruptive and aggressive mycologists are lurking in every corner of our Wisconsin society.

 Recently while in Madison, I was approached by an individual asking if we would care to have a full pound of fresh morels, in this case the larger brown morsels. As I slid next to  the individual, he motioned with the slight sideways nod of his head to take a look at his possession. It could have been on the streets of Casablanca as under his hat he looked about with suspicion not wanting to be noticed by just any passerby.  I was immediately drawn over to peer into a partial opened tote. The separation of the opening was a subtle move with the hand hesitating and eyes of the purveyor busily scanning the surrounds for fear of being spotted and reported. The tote was slowly opened.  I drew inward and there, there in their glory were a full two pounds of the brown wonders, the morels. The bag was quickly closed as the eyes of the holder lifted as if to say, “ What’d ya think?”

It was like a drug deal and I knew I had to act because if I refused to take the offer, others morel affectionadoes posing as their friends, or the restaurants would be the next target. Thus, my possible score would be over for the year. I looked at our friends in a state of glee. With a small grin, a grin of confidence and impending pleasure, I took their offer and headed off to Dennis and Gayle’s for steaks and morels.

As of late, this secrecy, this knowledge has been held close to the chest, has worked itself into the general public and the pursuit of mushrooms by these amateur mycologists has exposed a real issue. Mushrooms are an addiction and May is the beginning of the troubles. There was a day when a family could simply wander aimlessly among old dead apple trees leisurely gathering the early grays and the later browns, but those days are gone with mushrooms taking on the romance and intrigue of a trip on the African Queen.

Recently, there under one of my favorite dead elms, the grass was trampled by the sheer traffic of these murderous foragers seeking my morels. It seems as if some covert toadstool mongers are even operating at night right in the yards of occupied homes. They are junkies, wide-eyed, shaking, wet-mouthed junkies, high on my mushrooms. They must be from the cities.

In my fevered mind (not from s‘rooms) it occurred to me that thievery of my fungi committed by city dwellers was one thing,  but in reality, the bigger problem is morels are a gateway mushroom and are only the beginning of the trouble, that’s right, the troubles.

I’m going to have to lay it on the line, or expose the mycelium for what it is. Once morels are really introduced broadly to the public, it will lead to other fungal discoveries. The new scroungers, like Jeremy, will be off on an addiction of a grander scale. What I am saying loud and clear, is morels are a gateway. It is not a mycological secret the desperate foragers will quickly move on to the more hidden oyster shells fungi, then to Hen of the Forests hidden under my favorite oaks. The  Chanterelles will be next. There will be pushers all over the place on every corner, scandalously charging for nature’s natural harvest. The forest and fields will be trampled only because we, we country bumpkins have not established a security system and identified the war on fungi.

Ultimately, this addiction will lead to psilocybins or peyote, and then mistakenly to Death Caps, the beautiful Anamita phalloides.  The foragers might even be found scraping penicillin off tree bark. (Oh rats, that has already been done!)

It is becoming clear there is a need for Mushroom police, maybe a wall built around my favorite spots, even if it is on someone else’s property. The pushers and junkies are everywhere and they are a threat to our fungus supply. As the first member of the MYCOPS (Mycological Cops), I am saying it is time to stop the intruders, clean up the woods and save the fungi for those that deserve it most. Me---and a few friends.