Lincoln Logs

Speeding through rush hour traffic is the worst time to realize your dog is mad at you. But it was the perfect time for my dog Roxie.

I had been watching her ever since I picked her up from the dog sitter two days ago. She has a tendency to get sore feelings when I leave her for vacation. Her spotted tail with a smug of dirt waved erratically at me when I picked her up. She wiggled and leaped at me while I did the customary chit-chat with my dog sitter. The signature black-and-white face of a terrier stretched wide and her amber eyes danced. But I knew better. Roxie had a grudge lurking behind her distracted happiness. She typically acts on that grudge by venting her bodily functions. I can still remember the day I went to bed and slid my foot onto the cold, wet spot in the center of my highly absorbent, “wont-forget-this”, memory-foam bed. It took a week of cleaning to erase the acrid odor of urine with my arsenal of pee-eliminating sprays. The raggedy white circle on my otherwise-beige mattress is my constant reminder of what happens when Roxie gets mad.

From then on, I always watched her closely when I returned from a trip to discourage any liquid mutinies. This time it had been two days with no golden missiles landing on my carpet, my couch, or my bed. I thought I was all clear. Who knew a steady arsenal was loaded and waiting in her backside?

I was picking up speed on Highway 45 and belting out “Hit me bay-bee one more time.” It all started with an anxious whine and a quick shuffle of clawed, furry feet. A quick glance at Roxie in the passenger seat confirmed she was doing her normal, annoying routine of crying the ENTIRE time when riding in a car. It’s a very strange mix of emotions when she’s riding: she is excited to be going, anxious that we’re not there, and perplexed at being able to move and stay still at the same time. It all combines into a 40 lb. wreck of flying fur and anguished faces. Anyway, I am not alarmed at this point.

Then she started circling and huffing. It was a little different from the ordinary antics but I naively thought a quick “Shut UP Roxie!” would do the trick. It stopped her temporarily. But it started again with a confluence of circling, shuffling, huffing, and whining. Something was up. She kept glancing at me with a panicked expression. Nevertheless, I was still driving on the highway four exits away from our destination and I was not stopping. So she stopped circling, lowered her head in concentration, and started to crouch. I watched, mouth agape and eyes wide. I knew this pose. I didn’t have my plastic bag and we were not on the sidewalk!  I started shouting my most authoritative “NO!” but the load had already released. She shat in my car: two perfect, dark chocolate nuggets of decomposed waste. I started shouting and slapping her behind, her nose, anything to keep those nuggets from falling again. She stopped but now her mind was in overdrive. She started circling again. One paw smashed the perfectly-formed nuggets, then two paws, and then four paws. At this point, I was still OK. I kept a protective cover over my passenger seat. My collateral damage was one raggedy bed sheet. The smell was whipping out the now-opened windows. Everything was fine… until she clawed at the dash, jumped on the floor, and pawed at the radio. (My bad dear, I forgot to put on the victory music for you.) But the worst was when I finally parked at our destination. A smarter person would have just opened the passenger door and kicked her out, but I’m a creature of routine. Like I always do, I got out the car, commanded her to stay in the passenger seat, and walked around to let her out. I turned back just in time to see her chocolate-frosted paws leap into the driver’s seat and a grin of smug satisfaction spread on her face. I shouldn’t have fed her spaghetti.

The Price of Beauty

No matter how low I sink into the stuffed plastic chair, it reclines no further. It forces me to contort my body unnaturally just so I can get the right angle. Man, it’s cold. Thank goodness I had the foresight to wear boots. I move them restlessly on the iron bar. I only wish I had been as wise in my food selection before I left my house this morning. I stare at the steadily dwindling size of my Snickers bar and take another long drink of water. I refuse to buy the overpriced snacks wrapped in cellophane on the thin blue carpet floor.

It’s now been four hours; the normal time when I start getting antsy. I stare again at the movements flickering on the screen. The movies offer some comfort although they are so predictable. Even the ones in French, I can follow. It must be my mind succumbing to lethargy when I come to these places because I actually enjoy the stories, the bad acting, even the predictability. But this time is different. The woman is slow and the room is cold. I glance around at the shiny posters taped to the bare, white walls. Some have rips in them but the room is overall neat. Along the wall of windows is a weathered couch, sunken in the middle from all the big bottoms waiting their turn. I sigh and stare at the sun shining on a cloudless, winter day. The sun doesn’t reach my chair. I touch my hair to see how much further there is to go. What a way to spend a Saturday.

My body has gotten used to the rhythm of hands pleating in my hair. A jerk brings me back to my senses. I glance at the woman who has a round face, kind and firm. Her eyes break their concentration to give me a brief smile. We are beyond the point of chit-chat so we go back to work: her braiding, me staying in position.

Hour 6: the pressure is gone, a mirror is presented, and a smile is exchanged with money. Oh, the price of beauty.