Cannabidiol. CBD. A chemical compound found in marijuana proving over time to have vast medical applications. Topically, neurologically, respitorally.
Recently, CBD products have been made available to pets as well as their human counterparts. Research on the medical effects of cannabidiol on canines and felines has only been conducted in vague sketches. No one knows yet what products and what dosages affect which ailments in which animals best. So we decided to conduct a little mini research project on a girl and her dog.
Over the course of two weeks, our subject Michaela, a 24-year-old New York transplant, orally consumed CBD oil extract from a tincture in order to treat anemia brought on by diet, appetite loss, side effects of PMS, insomnia, anxiety and depression. Her dog whiskey was tasked with eating her treats for the same length of time, in the hopes of steadying bowel movements and relieving itch from dry skin. But Whiskey found no repose from her miseries.
Halfway through the experiment, the FDA released a report of companies misrepresenting CBD content in their goods. The “Canna-Biscuit” dog treats acquired for our experiment were revealed to contain 0% CBD.
Limited widespread information and government regulation of THC and CBD products can actually a blessed thing in some regards. Growers and manufacturers of quality products can run their operations at least halfway out in the open with limited interference from outside agencies.
But a lack of any external quality control also means that anyone who can mold a dog biscuit or extract an oil can slap a “CBD” or “THC” label on their product, and often the only way for consumers to find out if it’s garbage or not is through trial and error. And as such, caregivers and patients like Whiskey the dog are left with their proverbial dicks in hand as they attempt to provide obtain quality meds.
Though information is still limited, research on the subject of CBD has nearly tripled in the last year, thanks to research studies like those conducted by “Project CBD.” In the years to follow, research will spawn an even farther gaze, and a closer inspection. By 2025, the tinkering of compounds and reagents may push beyond our simple understanding of the physical realm, giving birth to the true future of science. A future of dimensional transgression. Today’s real world research by teams like “Project CBD” may quickly become a thing of the past as the extrasensory qualities of all kinds of chemicals are explored.
The government and invisible hand of business which have failed to provide medicine to the people who need it will pull and poke at the world they aimed to rule until it crumbles into dust between its fingers, leaving the civilians of Earth to fend for themselves while seed implants in the brain record all our thoughts and those of the minds we connect with telepathically…
Seed Index 48:15- 2025 16/23
The hot sun beats down in waves. Curdling the very ground it batters. Water to mud. Mud to dirt. Dirt to flakes of dusty ash.
A girl can barely breathe through the dust. And this heat…
Sweat plasters my forehead with swaths of thick hair. Closing my eyes, it almost feels like water. Or drops… No. Don’t say it. She’ll hear.
“It’s been three days now,” she muses inside my head. She’s already heard.
Despite this heat, no sweat ever stings her eyes. Just the never-ending drone of her panting. That panting…
Three days now. Usually takes about three days before your ribs start to touch. And even one drop sets you right.
So life is simple: Find the drops. With my nose, that’s a chore. With Whiskey’s, it’s a cake walk. A girl needs her dog. And we all need our drops.
She sniffs the air a little higher. “Well I smell something. It’s just… different.”
“Drops different?” She takes another sniff, “Drops-ish.” Good enough for me. “Follow your nose, girl.”
A few long miles pass before her ears perk. Grey-brown nothingness stretches endlessly before us. An abandoned pump station slumps to our left. A broken shell of the past.
The hairs bristle at the top of her neck. “What is it, girl?”
“It’s there.” I squint, wiping another blur of sweat from my eyes. “Then what’s got you so riled?”
Of course. I loose my axe as we make our silent approach on the station. Whiskey lurks lower with each prowling step. The sallow hole where the entrance once stood seems to wheeze smoke years stale. We post up at either side of it.
“Whoever’s in there! Make yourself known–or I am gonna blast your fucking head in with my dog! This is your only warning!”
“Tough guy,” she pants, almost laughing. That panting…
In a rush of blood I pull my bandana over my face and storm into the greasy haze, axe at the ready. Whiskey bounds into the shadows beside me.
Crunching through what feels like crisped dolls beneath my boots, I hear a growl up ahead. Was that a yell? I run at the thought of another voice. Rounding some once-soggy corner, my fears escape me at the sight of Whiskey with some scavenger by the throat.
“Well looky what we have here.” The sniveling pissant quite seriously may be pissing himself. “P-please! Don’t!!”
“Don’t what?” Cold-blooded dog. “The next words outta your mouth better be drops, or Whiskey girl here is gonna be tasting your home batch.”
“I have them! I have drops!” I click my tongue, a horse call. Whiskey lets go.
Once he trembles to his feet I see him for the lanky drip of water he is. Can’t be a lick past twenty. “Drops.”
“Okay, okay. I’m getting them.”
“Did I ask for a fucking poem? Move.” A few kicks further into the dungeon and we come upon his ramshackled lean-to: a crumpled plastic tarp pinned to the wall with a rock. And Sonny Boy does have a bag. “Slowly,” I tell him. Whiskey growls for good measure.
He pulls out a faded box. Weathered. Wrinkled with that once-wet dry of old cardboard. “Canni-Biscuits.” “Fuck are these?”
“They’re treats. -F–for dogs.” Whiskey tilts her head to one side, “Fuck they are!” I tighten my grip on the axe.
“Okay, look. I know I said I had drops. –There’s a place. Not far from here. They keep the drops in a room. I’ve seen it. We can get to it. I’ll take us there.” I don’t care enough to respond to this derelict. But I do take a step toward him.
“Hey! Look! Take it easy now. If you want these drops, you’re gonna need me! It can get pretty dangerous out there. You’d do good to have a man with you anyways.”
“You hear that, girl?” Whiskey barks, “Did I ever.” The moron’s eyes turn a whiter shade of pale. “…She–she’s a path?!”
“She sure is! And this here’s an axe!”
Seed Index 48:15- 2025 23/42
A few miles pass before I notice her panting.
“I guess he wasn’t lying,” she slobbers through a pant. “It does feel pretty good having a man with us!” she licks her lips and keeps on panting. That panting…
I love that panting.