you?”
A soft little whine, wide brown eyes staring at me.
I glance at the GPS; I’m in Utah, so… “Hey girl, whassup?” I laugh at my own stupid joke—quoting a country song to a dog, and I don’t even really like country music all that much. I’m slap-happy, is what I am. “How ’bout I call you Utah?”
This gets me a full-on bark, ears perking, head tipping to one side.
“Utah?”
Another yip.
Either this dog understands me, or I’m crazy.
Probably both are true.
“All right then, Utah it is. Howdy, Utah. My name is Lock. Ready to go?”
She lays her head down on her front paws again, and her eyes flutter and close. Guess she’s ready, huh?
I drive until I find one of those tiny highway towns, the kind of place that has a couple of fast food restaurants, a Quality Inn or something like that, a ratty supermarket, two or three gas stations, and a strip mall.
It’s very late, but I manage to find a motel and pay cash for a first-floor room. I park in front of my room’s door, crack a truck window for Utah, go inside and fill the ice bucket with some water and let her drink some. Once she’s settled I go inside and catch a couple hours of sleep. In the morning, I head to the nearest store to buy some supplies for my new buddy.
I question, as I peruse the pet supplies section, what I am doing? Why am I taking on the responsibility of a dog? It’s stupid. A dog is the last thing I need.
But, somehow, it feels like Utah is exactly what I need.
I buy a leash, collar, a bag of large breed dog food, a couple of bowls for food and water, a couple gallons of water, a couple toys, a ball, doggie snacks, and a brush. I take Utah back to the motel and sneak her inside. Technically, the place doesn’t allow pets, but I’m guessing they probably don’t allow hookers either, and there’s one turning tricks a couple doors down, so I figure I’m fine. I lead Utah into the bathroom and into the tub with the promise of a treat.
Fortunately, the shower has one of those removable head things, so I can give her a decent bath. I expect trouble, shaking, running, a freak-out of some kind. But sweet old Utah? She just stands there, massive and wet, a doggy grin on her face as I massage glob after glob of the complimentary shampoo into her thick, matted, shaggy fur. It takes the entire bottle to get her clean. Even when I’ve got the worst of the dirt and twigs and leaves washed away there are still several mats in her coat, so I dry her off—using all the towels in the bathroom—and then I use the brush on her. After a good twenty minutes of brushing, and judicious use of the scissors on my multi-tool, I manage to get most of the mats out of her fur.
Okay, so I’m not gonna be a professional dog groomer, but she’s clean and mat-free. It’s a step in the right direction, and she looks a hundred percent less like a stray.
She eats two full bowls of food and slurps more water, and then indicates she’s done by going over to the front door and sitting down, swiveling her head to look at me. I swear she’s got a look on her face that says, “You coming or what?”
“All right, all right,” I say, gathering up my stuff, “I’m coming. You’re ready to get out of here, huh?”
She gives that yip again, her tail thumping the floor.
I let her out, and she hauls across the parking lot to the scrub vegetation taking over the vacant lot next door. She trots around, sniffing erratically while I pack up the gear under the tonneau cover. Eventually she does her business—both kinds—and trots back on her own to sit by the rear passenger door.
I stare at her, amazed. “You are, like, the smartest dog there is, aint’cha?”
YIP !
I laugh, and open the door for her. As this is happening, though, the day clerk is watching as he checks the room next to mine. “Was she in the room with you?”
I see no point in lying—especially since I could probably buy this
A soft little whine, wide brown eyes staring at me.
I glance at the GPS; I’m in Utah, so… “Hey girl, whassup?” I laugh at my own stupid joke—quoting a country song to a dog, and I don’t even really like country music all that much. I’m slap-happy, is what I am. “How ’bout I call you Utah?”
This gets me a full-on bark, ears perking, head tipping to one side.
“Utah?”
Another yip.
Either this dog understands me, or I’m crazy.
Probably both are true.
“All right then, Utah it is. Howdy, Utah. My name is Lock. Ready to go?”
She lays her head down on her front paws again, and her eyes flutter and close. Guess she’s ready, huh?
I drive until I find one of those tiny highway towns, the kind of place that has a couple of fast food restaurants, a Quality Inn or something like that, a ratty supermarket, two or three gas stations, and a strip mall.
It’s very late, but I manage to find a motel and pay cash for a first-floor room. I park in front of my room’s door, crack a truck window for Utah, go inside and fill the ice bucket with some water and let her drink some. Once she’s settled I go inside and catch a couple hours of sleep. In the morning, I head to the nearest store to buy some supplies for my new buddy.
I question, as I peruse the pet supplies section, what I am doing? Why am I taking on the responsibility of a dog? It’s stupid. A dog is the last thing I need.
But, somehow, it feels like Utah is exactly what I need.
I buy a leash, collar, a bag of large breed dog food, a couple of bowls for food and water, a couple gallons of water, a couple toys, a ball, doggie snacks, and a brush. I take Utah back to the motel and sneak her inside. Technically, the place doesn’t allow pets, but I’m guessing they probably don’t allow hookers either, and there’s one turning tricks a couple doors down, so I figure I’m fine. I lead Utah into the bathroom and into the tub with the promise of a treat.
Fortunately, the shower has one of those removable head things, so I can give her a decent bath. I expect trouble, shaking, running, a freak-out of some kind. But sweet old Utah? She just stands there, massive and wet, a doggy grin on her face as I massage glob after glob of the complimentary shampoo into her thick, matted, shaggy fur. It takes the entire bottle to get her clean. Even when I’ve got the worst of the dirt and twigs and leaves washed away there are still several mats in her coat, so I dry her off—using all the towels in the bathroom—and then I use the brush on her. After a good twenty minutes of brushing, and judicious use of the scissors on my multi-tool, I manage to get most of the mats out of her fur.
Okay, so I’m not gonna be a professional dog groomer, but she’s clean and mat-free. It’s a step in the right direction, and she looks a hundred percent less like a stray.
She eats two full bowls of food and slurps more water, and then indicates she’s done by going over to the front door and sitting down, swiveling her head to look at me. I swear she’s got a look on her face that says, “You coming or what?”
“All right, all right,” I say, gathering up my stuff, “I’m coming. You’re ready to get out of here, huh?”
She gives that yip again, her tail thumping the floor.
I let her out, and she hauls across the parking lot to the scrub vegetation taking over the vacant lot next door. She trots around, sniffing erratically while I pack up the gear under the tonneau cover. Eventually she does her business—both kinds—and trots back on her own to sit by the rear passenger door.
I stare at her, amazed. “You are, like, the smartest dog there is, aint’cha?”
YIP !
I laugh, and open the door for her. As this is happening, though, the day clerk is watching as he checks the room next to mine. “Was she in the room with you?”
I see no point in lying—especially since I could probably buy this
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