Them Dogs be Trippin'

Dogs 'high' on cane toad toxin
February 19, 2005





Dogs were licking the backs of the warty pests and becoming addicted to the hallucinogenic poison, a NT vet said yesterday.
Megan Pickering, a vet in Katherine, said she had treated a number of dogs affected by the deadly toad poison.

"We have had quite a number of cases of dogs that are getting addicted to the toxin," Ms Pickering said. "There seems to be dogs that are licking the toxin to get high.

"They lick the toads and only take in a small amount of the poison – they get a smile on their face and look like they are going to wander off into the sunset."

Katherine, about three hours drive south of Darwin, has been ravaged by the cane toads for about three years.

Hunter S. Thompson, WHere Are You?

Hunter S. Thompson killed himself last night. That son-of-a-bitch. How, you ask? Oh, it was just the usual self-inflicted gunshot wound. I've noticed it's always guns now. It used to be pills. Pills were so much cleaner, left a pretty corpse. Guns are so fucking messy.

I never expected Hunter as one who would curl up and wither away, but I can't deny this shocked me. Floored, some might say. "Holy shit, you're fucking lying!" is what I said, if I remember right.

All things pass out of the void and back into the void.

It was a steady diet of Kurt Vonnegut and Hunter S. Thompson that really inspired me to write. I'd always written, but not with any discernable style. Hunter and Kurt showed me that there really were others who looked upon the world from a very, very odd perspective. I'll never forgive the bastard for making want to write.

In memorium I hereby post a very Thompson-inspired piece I wrote way back in December of 1998...

It was more like a pop than anything, some soft-suction click. It started very quiet. Where is this going? The basic image descriptions should be easy. But, perception is warped in these certain cases. No, not warped, cleansed. We’re used to seeing through oily lenses. What about the carpeting? It was brown and gray freckled indoor/outdoor carpeting. A very rugged texture. I prefer thick plush carpets, or a fat rug. The walls were thick and ridged from dozens of paintings over the years. The patterns of distortion make the walls inhale and exhale slowly. I think it’s time to begin the nightly ramble babble. Inform the new tenants that we are taking over. No more of the bullshit we’ve all been working with before. This is all new. This is better. Somewhere there is a solid truth. I think we’ve covered this. No, we’re drunk and the words flow and make little sense later. Forget all those preconceived notions about this journey. When we’re done, we’ll have complete documentation of every wacked thought that comes pouring out of your feeble mind. What kind of shit do you think people want to hear? You’re too old. Get a grip on yourself man. Jesus. Somewhere down the road is a gas station. I think we need a bagel and some chocolate milk.
That is what’s best now.

“Are you sure?" I asked.

“Works like a charm.” He replied.

“Alright, let's stop.”

The speed limit dropped from a quick seventy-five to thirty five, and then over the hill was our oasis. Pull into the parking space slowly, like respectable young adults and get immediately out of the vehicle to stretch.
Ahh. Much better. Gaze and admire the scenery. A railroad overpass and a large field. The gas pumps, a Toyota Camry, the 12pack soda display, a Sheriff’s Car, and two city Squad Cars.

“What did you say?!” Jason said as he stared down the road.

“I said there’s a Sheriff’s Car and two more Squads”.

Act casual, I guess.
We can’t go in there, I’m libel to geek if the pressure gets tight.
You can handle it. Just Restroom, Milk, Bagel, Register, and Car. Can you handle it?

Maybe.

No eye contact. Keep talking to a minimum.

Can’t we just leave?

No, they had to have seen us pull in, they’ll get suspicious if we leave without coming in.

Good point. Let’s get this over with.

We started with the door. A tiny siren was screeching in my brain. Some midget with a megaphone was chanting.. You’re going to jail… ha ha ha… prison… talk and babble incoherent nonsense in front of those damn pigs. They always know. And I’m not in the best of conditions to deal with a sadistic cop with nothing better to do on Tuesday morning at 3:30.

In the door, direct eye contact, or was that no eye contact? Shit, too late. Direct eye contact; do not fold under the Gaze; turn left; head straight for the toilet. There is Our Savior, Privacy in the restroom. A few minutes to relax and prepare for the next terrible ordeal. Avoid the mirror. The lighting in here is horrible. I look like some dead corpse. Not a good thought.

Change subject. Water, a brisk face splash. Not helping. I still feel like this oily clay monster. Must relax. Collect yourself. The only thing keeping you from this is yourself. Act tired. It is, after all early. Must continue later…

See, it so reeks of Thompson, I can hardly stand it.

I'm going to miss the son-of-a-bitch.