Aaron Pitcher, contributor
Marijuana cultivation can be a rewarding experience, replete with the promise of fat wallets and fatter sacks. Those in the grower community, however, understand that it comes with inherent risk. Maybe the plants won’t take. Maybe it’s illegal for you. Maybe you huff your profits in three days of heavy post-harvest fiendin’. These pitfalls are widely recognized, but this season one Iowa gardener was met first-hand with an often unforeseen hazard: the pain of saying good-bye.
Devon Moore, 42, is a lifelong resident of Fairfax, a suburb of Cedar Rapids. Locals describe it as the kind of town “that makes you wish you had some weed.” So Moore decided in the spring of this year to make his first attempt at homegrown cannabis production. By fall, his solitary yet healthy specimen had grown to such size and scent as to haunt the dreams of any true dopehead — a resounding success by nearly any metric. And still, there would be no victory toke, for in his naivete Moore had broken the first rule of cattle farming: “Don’t fall in love with the cows.”
According to reports, Moore apparently grew a deep emotional attachment to the organism, which he (perhaps mistakenly) named “Susan.” When the time came to indulge in Susan’s dried remains, he allegedly suffered a nervous breakdown. Mr. Moore has rebuffed several requests for an interview, instead releasing the following public statement:
“I would like to thank the media for respecting our family’s need for privacy in this trying time. I am personally devastated by the loss of my beloved Susan. How much longer might she have lived if we hadn’t put her down? I really don’t know; this is my first stab at this. But longer, for sure. Susan didn’t deserve to die. And I don’t deserve to enjoy her choice, sticky buds.”
One source close to the Moore family was willing to speak with SH on condition of anonymity, and said, “This is all so weird. Usually Devon totally gets after it. Seriously, the dude’s killed more weed than Roundup. I myself couldn’t wait to get Susan all up in my lungstuff. But D even got choked up when we smoked Fido [Susan’s one-time male companion]. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. When she was real little, still in the flower pot, he would take her everywhere. He’d baby-talk, call her little pet names like ‘Super Sue’ or ‘Suzy-woozy.’ Then as she matured it strictly became ‘Susan.’ Hell, he showed that stupid plant more affection than he ever showed me! But soft as he is, in the end I guess Devon is an ok husband and father to our boys. Wait, you’re not using my name, right?”