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 Dog Doo AfternoonPosted 03.20.2006 by Bunga Din (1239)
A big greasy breakfast: that's what we needed to put an end to the hangovers we were suffering. Three eggs over easy, four strips of bacon, three sausages, home fries, and toast, all washed down with copious volumes of coffee, all for only $2.99. After a good hour-and-a-half spent shooting the breeze, we all went our separate ways. Except my coworker Gail and I. She cajoled me to head over to her place to bum around for the day and have a few of the beers we hadn't managed to kill the night before.
After down fighting three beers on this bleak Sunday, I just didn't have the heart or energy to make a day of it. The cold November sky of Southern Ontario was a sleet grey, with winds of 50-60 mph scudding the clouds by faster than the last bit of runs had left me just after our return from breakfast. I was contemplating calling it a day when Gail asked, "Why don't we go down to the lake and check out the waves? We can take Barney. It'll be cool and it'll help the hangover." This sounded like a good idea. I'd never been to the area of Lake Erie she was talking about, and with the ferocious winds it was certain to be a sight. The fact that it was also bitterly cold would probably help clear out the cobwebs; and Barney, her cocker spaniel, had been cooped up inside all weekend. For a dog who loved the outdoors, this would certainly be fun for him. So off we went. Port Maitland is a really desolate place on the shores of Lake Erie. We arrived at the pier, which jutted out a few hundred yards into the lake. The breakers were coming in with a frenzy. Barney had been here before, so he was bouncing between the front and back seats like a pinball stuck between bumpers. Gail got his leash on and no sooner had he exited the car then her arm was straight ahead of her, with Barney pulling like a Terex Titan hauling iron ore. Barney's a friendly dog, so Gail decided to let him off his leash to rush out to the edge of the pier and bark those waves into submission. No sooner was he off the leash when we saw a tan blur speed off to the tip of the pier. We got to the lighthouse, not far from the tip, and found another couple there, also taking in the scene. We asked if they'd seen the dog; they mentioned he was down on the rocks on the protected side with their dog, sniffing around. We chatted for several minutes until Gail started calling Barney. He didn't answer. We walked out to the edge and I saw an unfamiliar dog's tail, so I carefully worked my way down to the edge. There was Barney, lying on his side, completely covered in what looked like algae. As I got closer, a huge stench hit me, and I could see something was very wrong. Barney was shaking like an epileptic in a strobe light factory, and this green slime that covered him was not algae but his own shit. I called to Gail to come look and she immediately began crying that Barney was having a seizure. It was too difficult to extricate him, so she kept calling him to come up. The seizure finally passed; shakily, he made his way up. We realized that the only thing we could do now was get him cleaned up and go home. He was walking very unsteadily. The stench that followed him was almost unbearable, in spite of the winds. When we got to the car, all Gail had to clean him up with was newspaper. It was useless. I watched while she tried wiping the liquid waste from his long coat, but the image and smell were making me feel like hurling. She kept working away as best she could while I lined the backseat with newspaper so the car wouldn't be a mess. Little of the crap had come off -- he was saturated, and we had no water to wash him with. The lake was too deep in this area to even try to clean him. The plan was to drive into town and stop at the first store to buy water and J-cloths and get him cleaned. I rigged his leash through the back window so he was pretty much immobilized in the backseat. He was so exhausted anyway, so he just sat there like the good guy he is. As soon as we had the doors closed, Gail and I both realized there was no way we were going to make it -- the smell was beyond rancid. We took off with the front windows rolled all the way down and the bile still nevertheless creeping up our throats. About a minute or two into our journey, Barney did what all dogs do when they are wet: the shake. It was like a green shit shrapnel bomb exploded in the car. To this day, the only thing I can compare it to would be the flight of the Challenger spacecraft: all seemed to be going fine until that split-second when the tanks blew and all semblance of normalcy disappeared. We were left in horror -- shocked that something that had been planned so well could end in such a disaster. Before I could understand what had really happened, I began to turn around to see what had hit me; but just as I was close to facing Barney, the green shit flying by my face caused me to instinctively duck. But it was too late. Gail shrieked, "Barney!!" as she turned hard to the gravel shoulder and simultaneously slammed on the brakes. The lack of air coming into the car now magnified the stench of the shit shrapnel, and I feebly opened the door and leaned forward and expunged my bargain breakfast into the ditch. I could hear Gail trying to extricate the dog from the car before any more damage was done; but in all honesty, I was dealing with too much to really worry about her. Gail was alternately crying about her car and about poor Barney while she rummaged in the trunk for more newspapers. It was useless. Barney was all shook out. Gail approached me and said, "You're all covered with shit." I turned to face her. Her blond locks now had several strands of runny green shit in it. With no amount of shame, I said, "You, too." Together we managed to get Barney back in the car. Gail began wiping the inside of the windshield, but it just made a foul fecal fog of the view. The inside of the car had shit silhouettes of where we'd been sitting when the rectal rocket fuel hit us. We tore off with scattering gravel and me like a puppy with his head out the window. We stopped at the first store we saw and decided that since Gail had taken the least shit shellacking, she'd go in to make the purchase. I got Barney out while choking back dry heaves. She cleaned him up much better than before, but the shit was really worked into his coat. We left with him re-secured and with confidence that he'd shaken enough that we wouldn't be doused with any more poop propellant. Barney did do the shake a couple times before we finally got home, but it was now diluted dungwater we were being hit with, so in comparison to earlier it was like a fresh spring rain. We got him inside and cleaned up, but Gail couldn't get a vet to see him until the next morning. I showered and scrubbed myself until raw and left with poor Gail standing in her doorway apologizing profusely; the look in her eyes, though, was one of worry for her four-legged friend. The next day at work she showed up around noon. Barney was at the vet getting a thorough going-over. She was worried about the prognosis... she loved him so much. Late in the afternoon, she got a call: he would be fine with a particular medicine they could prescribe. It was very expensive, but Gail was bound by her love of Barney to do her best to keep her friend. She told everyone at work how I'd helped her with her dog and how I was covered in shit and puking but still trying to be upbeat. That had been easy. Just looking into Gail's eyes and seeing how much she loved her four-legged friend, it was the only thing I could do. But every time I ever went out to visit Gail again, I had these terrible flashbacks as soon as I saw Barney. Not only were they visual, they were olfactory. A haze would settle over my field of vision. I'd see the windshield in front of me progressively getting more and more green raindrops on it. The urge to look for their source would be too great. My head turns, the stench hits me in the forehead like an ice pick, the strands of shit hit my cheeks. I duck, my gorge rises, ready to expel the leaden ball in my gut. I'm thrown forward, I grasp for the door handle, I begin to swing my legs out but something is on my knees. I look down and my vision clears: two paws rest just above my knees, and a short, blunt tail wags happily. I'm safe, for now. Post new comment
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