“Okay,” I said, sheepishly. “That’s good to hear. I think he can manage that.”
“Great,” she said. “So maybe we’ll see you and your Newf at our clinic someday, provided the wild fires don’t get you first.” Despite my embarrassment, I pretended to laugh along. I took down the clinic’s information for future reference and hung up the phone with one less thing to worry about.
Next thing I investigated was how I would get George, myself and all our belongings down to L.A. I decided to drive. A road trip: a man and his dog. What could be better and more basic than that? I’d rent an air-conditioned truck, and George would be only a look-in-the-rear-view away from me. That meant we’d be able to stop along the way as often as George needed to take care of business and to sniff to his heart’s content. It would be a great American adventure!
Then I calculated the driving hours and realized my solo driving mission might be more difficult than I thought. It was going to take a good five or six days. I needed a wingman, so I called my best friend, Todd. I had really opened up to Todd and his wife, Sheila, in those first rough months after Jane left. We had originally been teammates on a hockey team and had often stuck up for each other in the odd scrap or two. We had remained close friends for over twenty years. He was one of the people I knew I would miss most when I left. There weren’t many interests we didn’t share—hockey, golf, comedy shows and the occasional beer being the biggest—but there was one huge difference in our shared interests: Todd didn’t like dogs.
On a Thursday morning we were playing golf and Todd was attempting a difficult uphill putt over a slight ridge in the green. I was filling him in on my plans. “I’m going to drive to L.A.,” I told him. “I’ve already got a small moving truck booked.”
“That’s a hell of a long drive.” He hit his ball firmly, reading the break perfectly so the ball veered to the left in the last two feet and into the hole. “I’m in!”
“Nice putt. You’re in? In for the hole or in for the drive?”
“Both,” he said with a big grin. “I think the drive will be fun!”
“It’s going to take more than a few days.”
“Just don’t make me share a seat with that dog. Besides, you drive like an old lady and I don’t want you getting lost on some interstate in Iowa. Someone’s gotta look out for you.”
The road trip would give Todd and me a final few days to hang out and yet another thing to laugh about. I was going to miss him, but he was right—the drive would be fun.
I got the truck first thing on a Monday morning and Todd arrived not long after I’d parked it in front of the house. We had intended to hit the road by ten that morning, but as with every road trip in recorded human history, we didn’t get out the door until hours later.
Todd was a lifesaver when it came to loading the truck. Six-foot-three and weighing about 240 pounds, he could carry way more than most people. He was big like George, but as he’d said, he sure wasn’t a dog person. I had tried to explain about George’s personality and issues, but Todd was indifferent. “Hey, I respect that you’re helping that big dog out, but you deal with him. I just want to get this truck loaded and on the road.” George, already known for his fear of men, actively avoided Todd, shying from him every time he walked by. George whined as we packed away the contents of the only safe home he’d ever known. Meanwhile, I was feeling surprisingly good. Although I had a great house and I had worked hard on renovating it, the place still had Jane’s imprint all over it. I needed and wanted to leave it behind. Today that was going to happen.
Once we were all loaded up, it was time to go. The cab of the truck had two captain’s chairs and a tiny, low jump seat between them. It was pretty clear that George wouldn’t fit up there with us, so we set George’s travel crate up in the back of the vehicle. The crate was huge, designed for airline travel and big enough for him to curl up in and sleep.
“C’mon, big guy, jump in,” I said. George wasn’t overly impressed. He looked worried and sad and sat like a stone statue, staring straight through me. It reminded me of that scene in the movie Rain Man when Tom Cruise is trying to get his autistic brother, played by Dustin Hoffman, into the car for a cross-country drive but he will have none of it. It was funny, but it also wasn’t funny.
I got down on my knees and whispered into George’s soft, velvety ear. “It’s okay, George. We are moving to a new home. Just you and me. And it’s close to the ocean. You’ll get a chance to swim, which is what you and all your relatives are meant to do.”
He leaned into me as I held out his favorite toy, the giant stuffed donut I’d bought him the first day I had him. It was in tatters despite being advertised as “rip-proof.” I placed the shredded toy in his crate. “Get your donut, George! Let’s go.” George jumped into his crate. I closed the thick wire-mesh door and said, “Good boy. We’ll stop in a couple of hours for a break.” I closed the back of the truck, said goodbye to the house, locked the front door, looked at the For Sale sign in the front yard and pulled away from the curb—no photos, no tears and no looking back.
Todd and I shared the first stint of driving equally that day, making it to the border at Detroit by ten that night after a few pit stops for George along the way. Every time we let him out, there was an ordeal of pleading and coaxing to get George back into his crate. Todd clearly wasn’t growing any fonder of this dog.
The wait to get across the border wasn’t too bad, given that it was late on a Monday night. Our turn came and I nervously pulled up to a booth. Crossing the U.S.–Canada border in either direction is not an exact science. I had done it dozens of times, but this was different. MKTG had filed all the paperwork on my behalf and had lawyers coach me on what to say during the customs interview, which I was told could last anywhere from thirty to sixty minutes. I hoped I’d get a customs officer who was casual and friendly, asked minimal questions and would wave us through quickly. I had vet papers for George, assuring his good health, but still, I worried that something could go wrong.
“Passports,” the customs officer said. I handed them to him. “Which one of you is Colin?”
“That would be me.”
“Where are you fellows headed?”
“Hermosa Beach, California.”
He looked surprised. “That’s a long ways away. How long are you planning on staying?”
“Years, I hope. I’m starting a new job there. I’ve got my L1A visa here for you to process.” I held up my mound of papers.
“You working down there, too?” the officer asked Todd.
“I’m just along for the ride. I’ll be coming back.”
“Okay,” the officer said. He fanned through my papers quickly, almost as if he were looking for something hidden between the pages. “All right,” he said. “Open the back of the truck, please.”
“Don’t you want to take a look at—”
“Open—the—back,” he said again.
“Of course.” I cut the engine, got down from the cab and followed him around to the rear, with Todd not far behind me.
I could hear George’s tail thumping as we approached. I unlatched the door, and before opening it said, “Just so you know, my dog is back here. He’s a big boy and a little cautious around men.” He nodded and I pushed the door up.
George sat upright inside his crate. He was looking out at us, his droopy eyes sparkling with excitement and his tail still thumping underneath him. I glanced over at the stern customs officer, to find he had become a different person at the sight of George. His face had softened and he was even smiling.
“Wow, what a beautiful dog! What’s his name?”
“George.”
“Hello, George,” he said, taking a step forward and raising his arm toward the crate before second-guessing himself. “Why is he cautious around men? He doesn’t look aggressive.”
“No, he’s not aggressive, just a bit … worried. He was rescued.”
“Poor guy. I’m not going to hurt you, buddy,” he sa
id as he extended his hand toward George’s crate. George cautiously sniffed it. “I love dogs,” the officer said.
“So do I,” said Todd, with sarcasm that only I understood.
“He sure is beautiful. He seems like a nice dog, and you have your papers for yourself and him. Everything looks good. Have a safe drive.”
The whole exchange took all of three minutes. I was surprised.
I climbed back into the driver’s seat and the customs officer got back in his booth. “Here you go,” he told me, handing back our passports and my stack of documents and giving us a little wave through.
“Don’t you need to stamp all this or something?”
“No, you’re fine. You can deal with all that later when you get to California.”
I shrugged. “All right then. Thanks.” I put the truck into drive and off we went.
“Looks like someone other than you likes the dog,” Todd said.
“Maybe you should try liking him. You two have a lot in common.”
Todd stared at me like I was nuts. “Really. And how’s that?”
“You’re both very big. You’re both very nice to me. And you both make me laugh.”
“Hmm, whatever.” Todd said, as he gazed out the window.
“I would say you are both exactly alike, but George is way smarter.”
Todd tried his best not to laugh as we pulled onto the Michigan interstate and headed to California.
THIRTEEN
The drive continued smoothly the next day—for a while. The scenery was beautiful, Todd and I were carrying on our normal animated conversations and George seemed to be managing well. He was starting to recognize that Todd was a constant part of our pack and was warming up to him on our pit stops. George never met a telephone pole he didn’t like and made a big production of marking them at every gas station or roadside rest area we visited.
“That dog pees like a racehorse,” Todd said, as George lifted his leg for what seemed an eternity.
“We all have our talents,” I said.
Todd looked down at George, “You know, after a few beers or a couple of coffees, I can pee like that, too. Tomorrow morning I’ll show you who can pee the longest, George.”
George stared up at him and wagged his tail. I rolled my eyes and shook my head, though secretly I was glad they were starting to get along.
In the early evening, somewhere in the expanse of western Iowa, I got a call from my Toronto real estate agent to let me know that the house had sold—Jane’s and mine. We got over the asking price. I was pleased. Todd and I celebrated at an old roadside diner by ordering a couple of pulled-pork sandwiches, which we ate at a rickety picnic table as the sun set over the cornfields, a John Mellencamp song echoing through the open windows of the diner. Here we were, in the heart of America, me with my dog and my best friend. Without asking me, Todd threw George a hunk of meat from his sandwich. I never fed George table scraps, but in this circumstance I made an exception.
“He likes it!” Todd exclaimed. “You know, he is actually a pretty nice dog. I can see why you like him so much. He’s good for you.”
“You think?” I asked, eyeing George, who was waving his big tail. “Yeah, you’re right. He is good for me.”
“I’m going to miss you, you know. But you deserve to be happy again. California will be good for you … and for George,” Todd said, and punched me hard on the arm, really hard.
“What the …? That hurt!”
“You’re such a tough guy,” Todd said. “Come on, George. Let’s get a move on.” Then he picked up George’s leash and walked toward the truck with him as if he were the biggest dog lover in the world.
By the time we packed it in on Wednesday night, just across the Colorado border, George had endured three long driving days. We’d tried to be as mindful as possible—stopping every few hours to walk him, give him more food and water and hugs, play with him a bit and make sure he was comfortable. But we still had a lot of driving left ahead of us.
On the fourth morning—a clear, beautiful day—George’s head was dropped forward and he was not making eye contact with me. He enacted a “sitting protest” before finally relenting and jumping into the travel crate. I was getting better at reading his facial expressions and posture, and for the first time on the trip I got the sense he wasn’t happy. George had had enough.
We drove for about ninety minutes and then stopped for a walk. Afterward, as we approached the truck, instead of another sitting protest, George decided to make a break for it and pulled away without warning, yanking the leash out of my hand. Fortunately Todd stopped him and redirected him toward the vehicle, but even with the two of us working in tandem, we couldn’t get George to go back in his crate.
“George, sit.” Instead he jumped and dodged both Todd and me, moving just out of arm’s reach, his tail wagging like this was a really fun game.
“Get that donut he likes!” Todd yelled over at me as George spun around the truck.
“That’s not going to work,” I said. “He’s making a statement. He’s trying to say he’s had enough of the crate.”
“Great. I’m not spending all day playing tag with your dog. What are we going to do?”
It was a good question. I didn’t have an answer. George was standing about five feet away from us, eyes wide and alert. He took a few tentative steps forward. Todd whispered, “He’s coming toward you.” It was like we were trying to trap a bear or some other wild game animal, not a big, galumphing domestic dog.
George got a bit closer and I firmly grabbed his collar. “And that’s just about enough, George,” I said. He knew the game was over, so this time he engaged in passive resistance, lying down on his back, belly up, becoming a huge, furry dead weight. No matter how I coaxed him or tried to lift him, he remained limp and heavy. Except his tail. He wagged it slowly the whole time, as proof of his sense of humor.
“Now what?” Todd asked.
“I have no idea.”
Todd shook his head as he gazed down at the giant sprawled dog, who refused to get up. “I can’t believe the crazy crap you get me into.”
“Hey, this was your idea,” I said. “You wanted to come on this road trip.”
Then, together Todd and I lifted the 140 lb. limp, dead weight of George into the cab. “I never knew fur could weigh so much,” he said, as we maneuvered George into the crate.
We must have looked ridiculous. George had a little gleam in his eye that told me he thought this was all hilarious, and when we closed the door of the crate, he jumped up, wagging his tail like he hadn’t had that much fun in ages.
Todd took the wheel for the next stretch and we didn’t say much for the first hour or so. As we started to drive through the Rockies and the road climbed, the sun was beating down on us and the temperature was rising. “We need to pull over,” I said.
Todd glanced at me, confused.
“I’m worried about George. It’s getting hot outside. I have to make sure he’s okay.”
“Colin, there’s traffic. This isn’t the best place to stop, and you know he’ll be hard to get back in the truck.”
“I know, and that’s too bad, but we’re stopping anyway,” I said.
“All right.” Todd pulled the truck over to the shoulder and put on the hazard lights. When I let George out, he was panting and wagging his tail. We gave him a good long drink of water, and when he was done, I broke the news to Todd: “He’s not getting back in that crate.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m not putting him back there again, Todd. I would rather be over-cautious. I don’t want him to get too hot.”
“So, where exactly is he going then?”
“He’s riding up front with us.”
Todd stared at me like I was out of my mind. “I am not riding with … with that mountain of fur and slobber breathing down my neck from here to California. Nope. No way. Besides, he’ll never fit. The jump seat is too small.”
“I’
ll get him to lie on the floor on the passenger side.”
“Colin. For real? Can’t you see we’re not dealing with a tiny froufrou dog here—he’s huge!”
I turned to George, who was lying in the shade of the truck as cars sped loudly by us, only feet away on the interstate.
“I’m not riding with him in my lap,” Todd added.
“He needs to stay cool,” I said.
George looked as exasperated as we were.
“Fine,” Todd said, still angry but relenting. “But I’m driving the rest of the way. You manage the dog.”
“All right. Fine,” I said. “I’m sorry about this, but there’s no other choice.”
“Let’s just get going.”
Todd took his place in the driver’s seat, and I closed up the back and led George around to the passenger side. I opened the door and George immediately hopped up, as happy and obliging as could be. He settled right into the front seat.
“No, George,” I said. “You’re going down here.” I patted the floor mat to show him where to lie. He eyed me for a second and then dropped his front paws onto the mat, so that his entire rear end was up high and his giant tail was fanning Todd’s face.
“Nice. Very nice,” Todd said, as he brought up his arms in defense.
“Okay, so this isn’t going to work.”
Todd pretend-coughed “Told you so” into his hand. George lifted his front paws back up onto the passenger seat to regain his regal pose. He tossed Todd a victorious look over his shoulder.
“Wait,” I said, leaving the two of them and going around to the rear of the truck.
I fished out a sleeping bag and went back to the cab, climbed in and around George—no easy feat—and set about constructing a makeshift dog bed for George on the tiny, low jump seat.
“What are you doing?” Todd asked, as this time it was my rear end getting far too close to his face.
“Just give me a second.”
Free Days with George Page 12