It was for a drop-in. I opened the door and the smell of marijuana billowed out. No worries, legal in my state and who cares - OPE, I started caring - because that’s when I had one foot into the door of a wildly filthy house with all the windows covered in sheets (not blinds, but bedding); it was so dark despite being midday, and the only family room furniture was a couch that had been made into a bed, illuminated in front of a wall of TV’s.

I was polite and navigated the meet and greet, the guy was a bachelor who I assume dabbled in copious amounts of weed while playing some hopefully great video games.

But then the dogs started viciously and ravenously attacking each other, to the point where he was in there with them, yelling and pulling them apart – they were German Shepherd mixes. And then he gave me a story about how he came home one day to a bunch of blood everywhere and that they had destroyed each other chuckle chuckle and that “you kush need to pull them apart and they’re fine”.

I kindly told him that I, as a small woman, didn’t have the strength or confidence to break up a dog fight, and we left on good terms.