The Oh So Potted Moose

Preacher Steve was driving the Parks Highway. The cruise control set at 69, his favorite number. He’d reached the midway point between Fairbanks and Nenana. That’s Nenana, rhymes with banana. As he passed Skinny Dick’s Halfway Inn, he was distracted by a new sign: Liquor in the Front, Poker in the Rear

The moose leaped in front of his truck and the airbag exploded like a marshmallow in a microwave.

Jimmy the Hippie lived across the road, on a small compound. He was enjoying his first meal of the day. Green tea and a homegrown doobie, his version of the Breakfast of Champions. The sound of screeching brakes and crunching metal interrupted this endeavor. He jumped from the table and sprinted to the accident scene. His Birkenstocks slapped the pavement like a bongo player.

When the truck terminated the animal’s life the critter voided its bladder and bowels. The smell of death was a mix of hot metal, antifreeze, and moose poop.

Jimmy arrived to find the driver still in the truck, dazed. “Hey dude, you alright?” The man nodded his head and blood gushed from his nose. “I ahhwhite…I dink…hepp me oud.”

“I don’t know dude, you sure? Maybe you should stay there?”

“I sedd I ahwhite, open da door, hepp me oud.”

Jimmy helped him to the side of the road and assessed the man for any additional injuries or ailments. “Here sit down, sit here, and put your head up,” Jimmy said, as he guided him to a spruce log.

The Good Samaritan then walked over to the moose. It was clearly deceased. He wondered if he could take advantage of this bounty before it spoiled. This would give him red meat throughout the winter.

With the help of OnStar, Trooper Will Ketchum was dispatched to the scene. The young trooper had been with the State Police for three years. He recognized the undertones of the unmistakable aroma, something akin to a moldy Christmas tree. The pungent smell of the controlled substance teased his nose. The trooper took special note of the driver, carefully examining his eyes and body for any signs of intoxication.

The poor man was subjected to field tests and a litany of questions. The preacher insisted he didn’t smoke the stuff anymore and wasn’t high. “I couldin stop, it come from nowhere. I nod high, I nod drunk. Da dumb moose, the moose…id..id just stumbled inda road. Maybe id high. Did’n act like any moose I see befoe.

The sobriety questions continued. Steve passed all the tests and inquiries. He then gave consent to a search of his truck. All the while Jimmy was pestering Ketchum, like an impatient child. “Mister Trooper, Mister Trooper, can I have the moose? Can I, can I?” Reluctantly, the lawman gave the chirping resident permission to take it.

The hippie ran home for his tractor. In no time at all Jimmy returned with his bucketed John Deere.

Ketchum continued his search. The trooper was on a mission and was convinced that the mother lode of pot was somewhere in this truck. He could smell it, it had to be here. It just had to be here. He searched it with the intensity of a starving man looking for a cracker.

Jimmy hooked the moose to the front bucket, lifted it off the ground, and hauled his prize to his cabin. This year Christmas had come early.

Trooper Ketchum’s efforts were in vain, and he reluctantly called for a K-9 unit to assist. Twenty minutes later Sergeant Lowden Fowl and a young Lab name Muncheez arrived on the scene. The dog knew his duty, and the smell alerted him to his prize.

The animal had been trained well and had a good working relationship with the sergeant. With the command of “Find it,” the dog was turned loose. The furry companion knew as soon as he found “It”, he’d be rewarded with a tennis ball. This was what he lived for.

Muncheez made a beeline for the fecal matter in the roadway. The sergeant repeatedly led his companion back to the wrecked vehicle, but the dog kept returning to that spot. The sergeant was perplexed with this behavior and commented, “Maybe the pot’s in the bumper. And some is now on the road.”

Each time the dog approached the spot he howled, jumped, and barked. The two cops and the driver stood there in bewilderment. The dog kept alerting but did not receive the recognition he deserved. In what could only be described as the dog’s frustration with the human’s disbelief, he rolled in the pile of dung. Pounds of fermented and partially digested vegetation worked its way into his fur.

Then the dog broke for Jimmy’s yard, Fowl and Ketchum close behind. Steve, with a killer headache, stayed behind. Jimmy heard the commotion as the two troopers and the dog ran across his property. The dog then sprinted toward the old outhouse. Jimmy panicked and ran after the group.

As they came around the backside of the old privy all three men came to a screeching halt. There before them stood short rows of stalks neatly trimmed about three in height. As if some cannabis combine had recently harvested the greenery.

Jimmy fell to his knees and screamed in horror. He blurted out, “Some son of a bitch stole my crop.” He had been nurturing his little plantation ever since he smuggled the seeds in from Hawaii. Summers in Alaska were short, but twenty-four hours of light made most things grow fast and large. The hippie labored tirelessly on his little patch, watering it daily with fluid filtered through his own kidneys. The plants had prospered under his care and the arctic sun.

All three men then spied the cloven hoof prints and quickly came to the same conclusion. The moose had discovered the small plot. Every stem had been nipped close to the ground. The critter had eaten every last bit, maybe twenty or so pounds. The moose felt no pain at the time of death. He was high, his brain and blood loaded with THC.

Muncheez was barking and howling and jumping around like the wild animal his ancestors had been. Fowl reached behind his back, and Jimmy was sure he would soon be wearing matching bracelets. The sergeant pulled out the toy and threw it to the dog. The animal had definitely earned his reward.

With an iron will, Sergeant Fowl held himself together and calmly announced, “Well if that don’t beat all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that in all my years.” His self-control suddenly evaporated, and he burst out laughing. “Jimmy, I hope you enjoy your potted moose.” With half breaths he squeezed out, “The evidence, the evidence is gone, you got, you got nuthin, you got nuthin to worry about, we don’t, we don’t need this, this clogging up the court.”

Sergeant Fowl could barely stand by the time he finished his statement. His knees were ready to buckle when Trooper Ketchum tugged at his arm. “Sarge, I think we should get out of here. Let’s get some coffee.”

“Yeah, coffee sounds good, coffee and a brownie, let’s go.”

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