These Trying Times

It was dusk, and I decided to take my dogs for a walk. It had cooled down to 94 from over 100 earlier in the day, so it was temperate enough to take them out without too much worry over heatstroke, and as far as August in Texas goes it was a nice night. However, this wasn't a leisurely evening walk, as they were both straining at their leashes, criss-crossing in front of my legs, stopping to smell anything that piqued their interest along the way, and generally trying my patience at every turn. I figured their anxiety would subside as the walk progressed, but it remained a walking donnybrook through several blocks.

As we passed a gas station, I decided to stop for something to drink. Next to the door was a red newspaper vending machine, and unable to bring them into the store and lacking another visible option, I wrapped their leashes around the vertically protruding handle used to pull the window down. I tied them tight, and wondered how many people take several newspapers out for their fifty cents instead of the single one they payed for. I thought it was a matter of trust, and though there must be some that take advantage of the trust of media conglomerates, most don't. After making sure the leashes were secure, I trusted my dogs were as well, and stepped inside the store. I kept them in my view--just to be safe--as I selected my drink and went to the counter. They were nervously watching my every move, but staying put. I exchanged greetings and how's-it-goings with the attendant, and to preemptively answer his question about what I was up to--as if he cared--I said "yea, just taking the dogs for a walk."

Narrowing his eyes, he asked "what did you tie them to?" with much more curiosity than I expected. He was about the same age as me, blond, and seemed friendly enough.

"Just that newspaper-vending machine," I answered.

"Yea, that's not such a good idea. A dog pulled that over the other day." Though he said it with a chuckle, he wasn't joking.

Thinking over the implications of his advice, I thought: Well, that was some other dog, and that was someone else, and that someone else must not know how to keep their dogs in line, and my dogs were just fine, thank you. With a disarming smile, I said, "yea, well they're not just going to run off. I mean," and in that instant there was a commotion outside, and turning my head, I saw my 70-pound Rottweiller mix, Maynard, sprinting with as much speed the newspaper vending machine he was towing behind him would allow.

"SHIT!" I bellowed as I ran to the door and pushed it open. My anger and indignation quickly morphed into panic when I saw him running straight towards the busy street outside the gas station. As the machine banged and bucked behind him with the cacophony that only a large, hollow, metal machine could make, Maynard ran even faster in an attempt to escape the furious noise. Adding to my troubles, I saw that the leash of my other dog, the sweet black and white Pitt-mix named Maylina, was still attached to the machine, collar and all, and she was nowhere in sight.

At that very moment, I had to prioritize: Pursue the dog running headlong into the street, or find the other dog to prevent her from doing the same. Opting to address the immediate danger instead of the hypothetical, I hoped for the best and chased Maynard.

If there were an Olympic event for running with sandals on, I think I would've at least placed in the first heat of qualifiers. Unfortunately, despite the screeching 50-pound handicap dragging behind Maynard, his complete terror was spurring him on to an equally impressive speed. As he made it to the street, he turned right--without checking for oncoming traffic or using his turn signal, mind you--and bolted down the right-hand lane. Although there wasn't much of anything to be thankful for that night, the oncoming traffic stopped at a red light was the most I could've hoped for, and within thirty yards I caught up to Maynard. If there's ever another who is presented with my same predicament, as there most certainly will be, I hope they played football. Diving at that vending machine with a hard wrap-up and being dragged a yard or two was eerily reminiscent of giving chase to a running back and making a touchdown saving tackle. I'm convinced that if I hadn't, he would've either ran all the way home or been killed by one of the massive pick-up trucks that are omnipresent in Texas.

I quickly untied him, leaving the machine on the sidewalk, and with one dog attached safely to his leash in my hand, my focus shifted to finding Maylina. Worrying that I was too late, that she had already wandered into the intersection, I ran back, following the route from which I'd came with an equal desperation. Calling her name as I entered the parking lot, at first I didn't see her. For a moment, my worst fears were realized. Then, I saw her sitting by the door, still, with her head cocked to the side and a puzzled expression on her face. She enthusiastically came to me, tail wagging, and I pulled the collar back over her head, breathing a sigh of relief.

The attendant was waiting outside, probably wondering where the vending machine was, how he was going to replace it, and how much hell he was going to catch from his boss for losing it. Scanning the parking lot, I saw a dumpster at the corner of the station, and hooked the dogs' leashes to it. Try pulling that away Maynard, I thought. And try he did. When he realized he wasn't going anywhere, he sat down like a good little doggie and waited patiently as I retrieved the vending machine and carried it back to its rightful place.

I first noticed the smell when I approached the attendant. Dog shit, especially Maynard's, has an unmistakable odor to it. It was dark now, but I could see in the wide, white scrape mark on the pavement left by the vending machine a trail of dog turds, smeared by the machine as it passed over them, all the way to the street and into the night. The attendant had noticed as well.

"I guess that really scared the shit out of him," I said, in an attempt at an icebreaker I never could've imagined I'd use. I had to make up for the havok that my dog caused him, and somehow prove that I wasn't a completely incompetent dog owner, so I asked the attendant for a rag. I am, after all, a courteous dog owner, and courteous dog owners clean up their dog's messes. He was thankful that I offered, and understandingly told me to only pick up the big, noticeable ones.

After I cleaned up as much as I could tolerate, I threw the rag into the dumpster the dogs were tied to. Quizzically, the aroma of dog shit hadn't dissipated. The pavement was mostly clear and the dumpster was far enough, so by process of elimination I looked down at myself. And there, the mystery was solved. It was peppered on my hands, my shorts, my shirt. Some had even managed to sneak its way between my left pinky toe and the pad of my sandle. In an attempt to compose myself, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, which in hindsight wasn't the best recourse. I opened my eyes, and because I had no dignity left, the apprehension I should've felt reentering the brightly lit station was obsolete.

My drink, a water, hadn't moved from its place on the check-out counter. I picked it up, returned it, and grabbed a six-pack of beer in its stead, which I placed as an aluminum trump card over the condensation ring the water had left. As the attendant rang me up, I took great care to draw money from my pocket without sullying it with excrement.

"Anything else?" he asked.

I wanted to answer, "well, I certainly fucking hope not," but kept it in my thoughts. As I pondered my response to his question, I then saw through the attendant. Not in the personal sense, not his motives, his inner workings. I mean I saw through him, approximately four feet, to the cigarette display. I quit smoking two weeks and a day ago, and now was the first time I felt their seduction. That's not to say I haven't had a few cravings, but this was different. In their familiar raspy voice, they told me if I wanted to calm down, to regain my composure, the only deep breaths I needed to take were of the delicious, thick smoke that they offered, and my only obstacles were a few dollars and a thin layer of cellophane. The dollars I had, and the cellophane I could tear off and feel the smoke storm my lungs as I sucked down to the filter every last combustible old friend, coupling them in a perfect marriage with the beer until I ran out of both.

Right then, I really could've used a cigarette. But I didn't. I shut out those voices. I was too proud of myself that I've made it this far, and proud that I could resist the urge.

So, I bought a tin of the cheapest chew I could find instead.

Now that I'm at home, a chaw nestled comfortably in my lip, Maynard is laying by the bed looking up at me with this dumb-happy face, and he really does stink. Sure, I was mad at him for a little while, but not anymore. How can you stay mad at your dog? As I'm looking at him he looks content, simply happy to be at home with his newspaper-vending demon long forgotten. I've always said you can't blame a dog for being a dog, any more than you can blame someone for a character flaw in a moment of weakness. Although my demon followed me home, surely there's a small victory here, a lesson learned, and I have to do the best I can when shit happens.