“If he doesn’t run right up and jump in on the first go, it usually means you’re going to have to lift him up and stuff him in,” said the lady at the rescue as she hoisted up my dog’s bare rear parts and crammed him in my vehicle.
Xylo is about 84 pounds from stem to stern, but he’s not so much heavy as he is awkward. I mean, I can lift 80lbs of dead weight, I mean, come on, look at me. 80lbs of squirming dog however is another thing entirely. Fortunately Xylo doesn’t squirm. He, like most greyhound rescues, just kind of stops and stares at god knows what when you’re not in motion. I stop, he stops, staring off into space with no discernible emotion on his face, like a retarded horse thats just happy to be occupying area of the universe that you are and would gladly suckle on the side of your face out of boredom.
I was going to have to get used to carrying the animal because, so I was told, they’re prone to freezing up during daily activities. They can’t walk long distances because their feet are ready for it. In their pre-home-living life they ran, pooped, then spent a lot of time in their crate. I could very well take this dog out for a stroll just to watch it lock up on me, refuse to start again, and force me to carry Forest Gump style. That was my problem once I got him home, but the first lift out of the rescue kennel was free.
It was the day before Thanksgiving when I got Xylo, which afforded me certain seasonal humor opportunities. “Come on big fella,” I said, patting Xylo, “we have to get you home so I can fatten you up before we eat you tomorrow.” I looked at the lady handing over the dog, “anyone can do turkey, but greyhound is a foodie’s dream. Besides, it’s all lean protein and there’s no tryptophan, right?” I patted Xylo on his head and said, “mmm, mmm.” Xylo stared into a distant corner of the universe.
Nervous laughter was offered me by the rescue owner, then more admonishing about how to treat him, “Take it easy on the ride home. He’s not used to the car yet, he’ll slide all over the place back there when you corner.”
I did take it easy. I drove slowly but Ohio has some really busted up streets. Obama’s cracks about America’s crumbing infrastructure might not have been true for other parts of the country, but it sure as hell was true for northeastern Ohio. The roads were like a bombed out WWII villages. Every time I hit a pothole I checked Xylo in my review mirror to make sure he hadn’t crapped himself. But I had to fold the seats up to fit him in the back of the car on account of his size so if he was taking a crap I wouldn’t be able to tell by site. I’d just have to wait for his smell, andI was really nervous about it. Like white knuckling the steering wheel nervous. The last thing I wanted was a dog to make my house smell like dog, or dog piss or poop. And my car was even more sacred to me than my house. It was just a Honda CRV, but it was my first new car and I kept it immaculate. I had visions of the Dog crapping in the car, then washing it down with a nice full bodied piss, and leaving me in a futile struggle to get the scent out. Then, if I ever had to take the dog anyplace again, he’d know that this was a place to do business in since it would be well marked with his own comforting smell of feces. It would then escalate to an eternal war of scrubbing and scent marking with the only clear winner the cleanser companies that sold products like “oops away” or “doggie do-over” which wouldn’t work like the big name chemicals that dog cultists swear caused cancer in nine out of ten Yorkies if deployed.
In the panic, I turned on the classical music station to try and calm myself and the dog down. Mostly the dog because he was panting like an old man weathering a heart attack. Poor thing. I gave him a crack in the window to distract him, which he slobbered all over sticking his head out. In fact, he’d slobbered all over the back part of the car by this point. I could feel the slobber lowering the resale value as it dried and congealed. Of course, I told Xylo he was being a good boy, that he was a real Viking champion for not having a doggie aneurysm on our ride across America’s busted up heartland, but he didn’t care about my voice. He probably thought I was some evil bastard taking him away from his favorite asses to sniff. “Screw this guy,” he was thinking, “I’m gonna whizz down his door locks as soon as his back is turned.”
Then the smell hit me. God dammit! A wave of that nervous dog defecation scent that could peal the trim off the dashboard and melt all the dials like something out of a Salvador Dali painting rolled over the cabin. All the windows went down to jettison the smell. Should I pull over now? Should I pull over and what…? I couldn’t wash my car out on the roadside, or scrub the interior, or scrub the dog who was probably grinding his own poop into the floor boards and leather seat backs as I spoke, vindictively no less, paying me back for this ride from hell.
But then the smell passed by. It was just a fart. Thank god almighty it was just fart, but holy cow what a fart it was. I mean, was this the kind of colon I’d just adopted? That gas marches right up your nose and kills brain cells. Rednecks that funnel cow turds for a high wouldn’t even snort this crap. If this was the scent that stress produces in an animal then rescue kennels should covert their facilities to run of natural gas because that is some potent shit.
We made it home five or so farts later. I opened the back of the CRV and let him hop out. I’d fenced in the tiny backyard area of the house so he’d have a place to do his business. And I wanted him to do it too, a nice long one so I could take him in the house convinced he was running on empty because I didn’t want any accidents indoors.
Xylo sniffed around the terrace, passed the potted plants and large rocks, and pulled up beside a deck chair. He lifted his leg and lacquered it down with fresh yellow stain. Finished, Xylo returned to my side and stopped in his retarded horse stance. “Good boy?” I said. I watched urine dribble down the side of the chair and thought of Crate and Barrel living room set my wife and I just picked out that Xylo had yet to acquaint himself with in the house.