One Friday night, in walked four giggling college freshmen and their big, goofy lab who was even goofier than normal because she had recently eaten a gigantic pot brownie (along with the plastic wrap covering it). I knew this because this group had the sense to call ahead, but even if they hadn't, it would have been fairly obvious since the dog was a little wobbly and kept burping up a potent mixture of weed and chocolate.
Slightly complicating the initial interview was the police officer who walked in with them. The girls had gotten lost on the way and had to ask directions. The officer was nice enough to escort them in to make sure they ended up in the right building. Then he just hung around.
Also complicating the initial interview was the fact that the girls were baked. (Further proof that they'd been partaking -- they'd left the lab in the room alone with a brownie out on the coffee table...) Just finding out who actually owned the dog took a good five minutes.
Now, I knew what was going on. And I knew the officer knew what was going on, even if he didn't really care. But I felt that spelling things out might force him to officially notice what was going on. This led to the following oblique conversation:
"Okay, so there are two possible toxicities that we might be dealing with here, right? There isn't really enough chocolate in a whole plate of brownies to cause a problem for a dog this size. The other substance " (long pause while we all looked at each other) " is probably not a big deal either, but it can cause some temporary side effects so I usually recommend making the dog vomit. Are we sure that's all she got into?"
Fifteen minutes and a little apomorphine later, the entire ICU smelled like Maui Wowie and Pillsbury's finest. (Then we had to stop the dog from eating it all over again.)
After that we ordered pizza.