Giant George

by Dave Nasser

After dropping Annabel at my mom and dad’s the previous night, the pair of us had hardly slept a wink. We were excited, for sure—this was going to be one great adventure—but mostly it was because so much had happened in such a short space of time, and we were having trouble keeping up with it all.

  Luckily, I was working on our house at that time, so taking some time out didn’t matter too much, but Christie couldn’t be off for more than a couple of days, as she had meetings and deadlines and customers to see, and needed to keep in touch by cell too.

  Unlike the two of us, however, George had been as chilled as could be. Sure, he was having a pretty good time at the moment, with so much fuss being made of him, so many unexpected and unlikely excursions, but as life was pretty much one long party for him anyway, he’d chowed down his dinner, gone to the bathroom in the backyard, flopped down on his bed and gone right off to sleep.

  So he was fresh when we hit the airport, and raring to go. Raring to meet anyone who wanted to stroke and pet him, and suddenly there was a whole bunch of people—complete strangers—who seemed to want to do just that. So he lapped it all up while we fielded the questions, and made slow progress along to security. It was lucky we were early, because by the time we got through, we’d been meeting and greeting for over half an hour. But when we finally reached the security area, it soon became clear that our trip—now confirmed and about to happen—might be in jeopardy after all.

  Once at the security gate, we were introduced to a number of people who’d been assigned the task of showing us through. The only thing was that there seemed to be a problem with the paperwork, as the TSA (Transportation Safety Administration) required that there was an ID for every single seat booked. And since there was only one George but George had three seats, they were two out of three IDs short. There was a huddled conversation between the various officials; then the duty manager who’d escorted us told us to wait at security while he went back to his office to try and sort things out.

  So we waited, and we waited, and we waited a little more. The other passengers continued to pet George as they passed us, and Christie and I made small talk with the security guys, while privately wondering if we’d spent half the day and night packing for nothing. Eventually, though, we spotted the manager in the distance, and after another round of conversation and much checking of paperwork, George and Christie and I were allowed through.

  But it seemed our pre-flight problems weren’t quite over. We’d been asked to hang back till everyone else had boarded, so that we could make life easier for all by being the last on the plane. I also knew it was time to put on the muzzle—the muzzle that George had been fine with only a few hours ago, but that now it seemed he’d taken a violent dislike to. As soon as he saw it, and I tried to put it on him, he made his dislike of it plain. He started swinging his head from side to side to try and avoid it, tossing it this way and that, clearly annoyed with us.

  We were both a bit dumbstruck. How could this have happened?

  “But he was fine with it!” I hissed to Christie, hoping no one was seeing this. “He didn’t do this when we put it on him last night!”

  “Yes, but perhaps he’s doing this because we put it on him last night,” she hissed back. “And he’s remembering he didn’t like it a whole lot!”

  But the gods were being kind, because after making his point it seemed Georgie decided he’d roll with it anyway. Perhaps he could smell some chicken cooking in the galley—who knows? All we knew was that we were pretty relieved to have him finally muzzled up and good to board. We hurried down the ramp to the plane.

  When you get on a plane, I guess the last thing you expect to see is an animal, and perhaps the very last thing would be an animal the size of George. So it was no surprise the passengers, most of whom hadn’t seen him yet, were stunned when he walked down the aisle. Some looked so in shock to see George saunter past to take his “seat” that it was like we’d strolled on board with a tiger.

  It was interesting just looking at their faces. Some looked on in amazement, obviously thinking this was pretty cool, but others looked scared. You could almost see their minds working, and imagine them thinking, “Jeez, we’re going to be on board with this animal for four hours?” Some looked so unsettled that I began to feel bad—flying was stressful enough for some people; how much more stress were they feeling right now?

  But once we got settled and organized ourselves, I realized I didn’t need to worry. I could see a guy with a laptop, who was typing furiously, and then, suddenly, George’s big beautiful face filled the screen. He then opened up his e-mail, and I watched as he typed: “That dog is on the plane with us right now!!!!” We both felt much better after seeing that.

  We took off on schedule, and I decided to take a chance on the muzzle. George was chilled as could be, so we removed it. We’d kind of figured things would be pretty quiet at this point, and that George would mostly nap his way through the flight. But what were we thinking? How naive we were!

  Right away, there was an exodus to the front of economy, as everyone began making their way up the aisle, those who had met George to come see how he was getting on, and those who hadn’t to come take a look for themselves at this huge dog they’d been told was on board. Once again, George lapped up all the attention. Why wouldn’t he? He loved every minute. And though we’d been concerned about the three flight attendants, it seemed they loved him too, and were amazed at what a good boy he was.

  “He’s just incredible!” said one, which made Christie and me smile.

  But as the flight got under way we started to worry that George might be getting a little too much of a good thing. He’d lie down and get settled and then someone would come along, so he’d sit right back up again to soak up the attention. After a while, one of the flight attendants, seeing what was happening, asked us if we needed her to help calm things down.

  We felt bad—we didn’t want to offend anyone, much less stop anyone who still wanted to meet him—but she was right: it was too much. George needed to rest. So she went and put the “fasten seat belt” signs back on, so we could have a chance to relax. And we did: all three of us immediately dozed off.

  But if we were shocked by the attention George was getting on the plane, it was nothing compared to what greeted us when we finally touched down in Chicago.

  Despite all we’d been told about everyone keeping things secret, someone somewhere had obviously tipped someone else off because right away—almost as soon as we stepped off the airplane—there was another bunch of people, about a hundred this time, both employees of the airline and members of the public, and loads of cameras clicking.

  But this time we experienced a new phenomenon: no one came up close to pet George; they all kept their distance and gawked from afar. It was like he was a movie star working a red carpet: he turned this way and that, head held high, really posing. And everyone stood and looked at him in awe.

  “I don’t know what it is,” I said to Christie, “but that dog of ours has got it. Look at him! It’s like he knows who he is! Like he’s lapping up what he knows is his due.”

  It was too. There was this presence, this aura about him, a kind of vibe that seemed to bounce off him and was incredible to watch. I held the leash, sure, but it was George who was leading the action. Nothing could get in his way. It was a real esoteric thing, this star quality he exuded. You see it in certain movie stars—some have it in spades, some not so much. But it was what Christie and I were now seeing in our dog, and it was something else to witness.

  But stars need their rest, especially before a big premiere, so we had to drag a reluctant George away from the circle of his clearly adoring fans. An AA manager greeted us and escorted us out of the airport, taking us and the driver, who’d come inside to meet us, straight to a limo—a limo!—that was waiting outside and would take the three of us straight to our hotel.

  George loved that limo—and how. He was up and into it like it was exactly what he’d expected, hopping
right up onto the long seat that ran the length of it, stretching out languidly and looking right at home. But however comfortable he looked, I was still a bit anxious, because despite all my confident talk about the size of his bladder, I was worried he might need the bathroom. He wasn’t showing signs of any obvious distress, but, even so, when I asked the driver to stop and we got out, it was soon clear I’d been absolutely right. That done, we made the rest of the forty-minute journey, enjoying the sights of a city Christie and I had both visited in summer, but which looked so gloriously different on this crisp winter’s day.

  They’d given us a room in the Omni Chicago Hotel, a really classy place right in the heart of downtown, where we could rest until we were due to be picked up early the next day. Till then, after the panics of the previous day and evening, all we wanted to do was veg out in front of the TV, order room service and sleep.

  Once again, when we arrived outside the hotel, we were given a great reception. We were escorted inside via a special back entrance, like they do with the president so there’s not a huge fuss. And what a room it turned out we’d been given. We’d assumed it would be nice—it was a pretty nice hotel, after all. But when the guy opened the double doors and showed us inside, I think all our jaws dropped, including George’s. It was huge. And so opulent, a real palace of a place and a million miles away from that Phoenix hotel where we’d been holed up with George when Christie had lost the baby. Here he was actually the guest of honor.

  “It’s the governor’s suite, sir,” the guy explained proudly.

  And it was certainly fit for a governor. It was fit for a king. It was massive, with a huge sitting room, a separate grand bedroom, an en suite you could hold a small party in, if you wanted to, a bar area, a dining area… it was amazing. But then we realized there was a fly in the ointment in all this high-living: there was no place in the suite for George to sleep.

  “Tell you what,” said the desk clerk, when we called him with our problem, “I’ll have someone come right up with a roll-away bed for him.”

  We thanked him and got on with the all-important business of calling home to check on Annabel and working out what we wanted from room service. It was some menu, and the choosing would take time.

  Minutes later, the rollaway was duly delivered, we tipped the bellboy and started to set it up.

  “It’s a bit small, isn’t it?” was Christie’s considered opinion, once we’d pulled off the sheets and pillows and blankets and coaxed George to climb up and give it a try. She grimaced as it seemed to quiver gently beneath him.

  “And I’m not sure it’s going to take his weight either.”

  “We need to put the mattress on the floor,” I agreed. So we pulled the mattress off, rolled up the bed frame, cleared the blankets, and relocated the mattress to the floor.

  We both looked and shook our heads once again.

  “We need another rollaway, don’t we?”

  Christie got back on the phone, this time to order some dinner and wine for us and another rollaway for Georgie. The guy who came up—the same one—looked at us like we were mad, but we didn’t care. The star needed his sleep.

  As did we. We gazed lovingly at the huge, fluffy king in the master bedroom. We would sleep well tonight.

  We removed the bedding from the second rollaway and pulled off the second mattress, lining it up lengthways beside the first one.

  “Hey, Georgie,” said Christie. “Come try this out, will you? It’s not perfect, I know, but it’s oh so much better.” George tried it. He turned circles, turned some more, then flopped down.

  “Done,” I said, as we heard a soft knocking at the door. “Time for our dinner now, I think.”

  I’d ordered steak and Christie had ordered salmon, accompanied by a bottle of Silver Oak Cabernet. It was a real treat, because the prices here were way higher than in Tucson, but as we’d been told that Oprah would foot the bill for us, it was fair to say we were very much looking forward to our meal—even more so once it was set up at the elegant table by the fire. We were ready to tuck in.

  And we did, but we weren’t long into our meals when Christie paused and nodded toward Georgie. “He looks uncomfortable on that,” she said. “Hon, do you think he looks uncomfortable?”

  I looked across at him. And yes, he did look pretty uncomfortable. The two mattresses, being rollaway ones, were pretty thin, and even pushed together they weren’t wide enough for him. Infuriatingly, they wouldn’t stay together, either. He had his head on one mattress and his back end on the other, but his stomach was sagging onto the carpet.

  “Yup,” I agreed, putting a forkful of steak into my mouth. “You’re right. That looks pretty uncomfortable.”

  “Maybe, after we finish dinner,” Christie decided, “we could move that chair over there”—she raised a hand and pointed—“to stop the mattresses from sliding apart.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “And maybe we could shove those pillows against the head end. That’ll at least give us a little bit more length to play with.”

  “Good idea,” Christie agreed. “That’ll probably do it.”

  Except it didn’t, and right after we finished our dinner, we spent a frustrating half hour, George looking on patiently, trying to maneuver things to make a bed for him that was both wide enough for his bulk and wouldn’t move. The trouble was that every time he moved, the mattresses moved too. It was hopeless. Even bordered by the chair, it was hopeless. The mattresses were just so thin and bendy that they crumpled up under his weight.

  I felt so sorry for him, I handed him a piece of my steak. “You know what we really need to do?” I said in jest (I’d had that wine now, of course). “We really need to give Georgie our bed to sleep on, and have the two roll-aways in this room ourselves.”

  Christie looked at me, and I could see I’d made a fatal error. She didn’t realize I was joking—not at all.

  “You’re absolutely right,” she said, hauling herself back up. “D’oh! Why didn’t we think of that in the first place?! Come on, let’s get these beds set up.”

  An hour later and the three of us were done for the night. We’d gathered up the mattresses, remade both of the rollaways, put the stray bits of furniture back in the right positions, gotten undressed, cleaned our teeth and crawled into separate beds, where, from our pair of puny, thin rollaway mattresses, we stayed awake plenty long enough to see our boy go to sleep. He was lying sprawled, eyes rolled up in blissful doggie-dreaming, in the huge, fluffy king-size in the governor’s suite of the terrifically swanky Omni Chicago Hotel.

  “Well,” whispered Christie, as her rollaway creaked beneath her. “It is George who is the star here, after all.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Showtime

  You know you’ve arrived when you get your own green room—not that we were sure what it was we’d arrived at, exactly. Playing a pair of chaperones to a superstar felt like a pretty lofty place to be, though.

  Neither Christie nor I had ever been near a TV studio before, so the whole experience blew us away. But the people at Oprah were lovely. They made everything so nice for us, right down to allocating the room for our personal use and making a huge comfy bed on the floor for George to rest on; and, in case we were hounded by overenthusiastic fans, they’d even gone so far as to make a sign for the door. The sign said: “Unless you are a member of Team Giant George, please don’t ask to see him till taping is over.” And pretty much everyone ignored it.

  Not that we minded, and George didn’t either. They told us he was more popular with the staff at the studios than most of A-list Hollywood actors and actresses who passed through the show’s hands.

  As they would, I guess—everyone knew that an appearance on The Oprah Winfrey Show was just about the best publicity ticket ever, because the show, which had been around for a quarter of a century, was simply the biggest, most famous talk show in the whole of America, not to mention the rest of the world. No wonder celebrities scrambled over one another to get a
place on her sofa. So, when you thought about it, the people who worked on the show—and there were lots of them—must have been pretty used to having this movie star or that sports star show up with their entourage and their demands for this and that.

  But here, in our Georgie, they’d found a real people’s hero. And a perfect guest too: one who hadn’t arrived primed with a long list of riders; one who counted himself happy just to have his ears scratched. No wonder they loved him so much.

  It had been another early start. We had woken up early—unsurprisingly, given our night on the rollaways—and I’d taken George out for a walk, so he could go to the bathroom before we left. There was still plenty of snow around, but not so much that he got twitchy about where he was stepping; the sidewalks were mostly clear, and the bulk of the snow sat in big grubby piles at the road edge. That done, and after a quick room-service breakfast, the three of us were in reception at 7:30 sharp, waiting for the driver who’d take us to the studios. Another day, another limo. “This is surreal,” Christie said. She was right. I had butterflies in my stomach—a first for maybe twenty-plus years.

  It was surreal, too. It was a world away from our lives in Arizona, both in terms of where we were and what we were doing. It seemed incredible to think that we were off to one of the most famous TV studios in the country.

  Both the studio itself and the Oprah Winfrey production company are named Harpo—which is “Oprah” spelled backward, of course. It’s the only studio complex in the world (I went online and found out this fact before we left home) that’s owned by an African-American woman. Oprah Winfrey, in short, is a legend.

  The studios were on Washington Boulevard, in the Near West Side, about a twenty-minute drive from the Omni. Though I was feeling nervous, at least it wasn’t going out live—the show would be taped today to be aired the following Monday, so I reassured myself that if George or I made any bloopers it maybe wouldn’t be so bad. Even so, as I saw the big Harpo Studios sign in the distance, my nerves jumped up a notch or four.