I’ve seen those eyes before: in high school parking lots and open-air concerts, at parties your “mama told you not to come” to. He sits by the door waiting for another hit of aromatherapy.
I was smart this year and planted it in the front porch pot with the basil as olfactory camouflage. And that is the only reason his supply has lasted this long.
Let’s face it — dude is an addict. He doesn’t even roll in it anymore, just swallows the entire leaf like it’s his last day on earth.
Which it might be if he doesn’t shut up.
Most years I’ve tried to grow the stuff, he sniffs it out and mows down the whole crop like a kitty combine. Later, I’ll come upon yet another sad scene of destruction, plants inhaled down to broken stems, nothing left for a single, solitary . . . locust.
Oh, and he’s too good for store-bought bags. He turns up his little pink nose at the stuffed mice, herbal sachets and smell-enhanced teasers on a stick.
Only the real thing will do. Which is what I discovered this summer growing as a healthy volunteer in my flower bed, hidden in the weeds. Just to be sure, I pulled off a leaf and passed a sample under my sleeping tiger’s snout, causing a miraculous resurrection.
Next thing I know, he’s racing around the house high on life, munching at the food bowl, crazy as a — cat.
So yeah. This explains the all-night howl jams at our house.
He knows he’s busted.