Some Things I've learned from Dogs

A week after Finn, our eight week old Golden Retriever pup came to live with us, Bruce and I headed east from Oregon to visit family in New York State. Finn nestled on the brown plaid vinyl seat between us, as we drove the rust colored Chevy pick-up through long stretches of empty country. Within a day, the three of us settled into a traveling routine. By the time we reached Wyoming, Finn was truck broken.

The flat, gray-green sagebrush-covered landscape rolled on in every direction; the flat horizon relieved by an occasional tree, or a cow grazing among the sage brush. Finn broke the monotony by changing positions, or rushing to the window to watch the scenery race by. When he needed to go, hid place his paws on the door, press his nose to the window and whining to go out. To take a nap, he’d climb up my shoulder, tight rope walk across the back of the truck’s bench seat. Then plopping down with two right legs dangling over the front and the two left behind, he’d fall asleep straddling the bench seat. Draped over the seat, he’d sleep as we made our way across Oregon and Utah.

            On the third day of the trip, in the middle of Wyoming, Finn woke up from a nap and climbed onto my lap. He placed his two front paws on the window and began to whine. “He needs to go, Bruce” I said.

            Bruce stared straight ahead, his eyes never leaving the interstate that stretched out ahead of us. “There’s a rest area coming up soon,” he said.

            I patted Finn’s head thinking of all the stories I could tell him about driving cross country with Bruce. The first time Bruce and I headed west, I marveled at his organization. None of this “get in the car and go” for Bruce. He pored over maps; planned out the route; memorized the interstate numbers; calculated how far he could get on a tank of gas. Every exit to get gas was predetermined. Every rest area to stretch our legs and go to the bathroom was scheduled. Finn had my sympathy. I’d crossed my legs across many a state waiting for the scheduled rest stop.

The “Rest Area - 2 miles ahead” sign came into view. “Soon,” I whispered to Finn, who trusting that relief was in sight, curled up on my lap and tried to sleep.

            A huge green sign announced the rest area. An orange slash across the sign, proclaimed its closure. A couple large orange barrels blocked the ramp, emphasizing the impenetrability of the place.

Bruce didn’t take his foot off the gas. He drove by at 60 miles an hour. Finn, sensing relief slipping away, jumped up and looked out the window. He barked as the rest area slipped out of view behind us.

            “Bruce,” my voice sounded like a screech even to my ears, “he has to go.”

            “The rest area’s closed,” Bruce said. “I can’t just stop.”

The countryside rolled by us devoid of roads, houses, or cars. “Why on earth not?” I said.

            “A car might come,” he answered.

            My eyes scanned the horizon; not a car in sight. I looked behind us. No one followed for the miles that rolled out flat and unbroken behind us. We hadn’t seen another car all morning. “It’s Wyoming, Bruce” I said.

            “I’ll pull off at the next exit,” he answered.

            “It’s Wyoming, Bruce. The next exit could be two hours away.”

            As if in answer a sign came into view. “Dead Indian Road - 10 miles”, it read.

            “We’ll pull off there,” Bruce answered, satisfied that that was a good solution.

            Finn stood up and circled on my lap. I pet him ineffectually. “Should have warned you buddy,” I thought, “bladders and stomachs don’t usually figure into Bruce’s calculations.” I hoped he wouldn’t pee on my lap.

            As if resigned, he put his paws on my shoulders and pushing with his back legs, climbed up to the back of the bench seat. “Good” I thought, as Finn tight rope walked across the back of the seat to the middle where he usually slept. “He’s going to lie down and sleep a while.” But when he reached the middle of the seat he kept walking until he was balancing on the back of seat right behind Bruce’s right shoulder.

            “What’s he doing,” Bruce asked, as a sizzling sound filled the air, the acrid smell of warm urine floating across the cab. “Stop him,” Bruce yelled, as I watched a dark wet patch spread slowly across Bruce’s shoulder and down his back and arm. Dark yellow urine pooled on the vinyl seat, and rolled slowly toward me. I pressed myself against the door, looking around for something to dam the flood. Finn stood balanced behind Bruce’s shoulder, the stream of warm yellow urine flowing on and on and on. I watched enthralled, amazed that such a little dog could hold so much pee.

“Stop him,” Bruce said again, but I was trying not to laugh, while I pulled a roll of paper towels from behind the seat and mopped up urine.  The pee followed a seam in the vinyl and spilled onto the floor of the cab, avoiding me all together.

Finn finally stopped, turned and walked back to me. He climbed down off the seat and curled up on my lap for a nap.

I mopped ineffectually at Bruce’s soaked shirt with a paper towel. “Maybe you can stop at the next rest area to change,” I said, as Bruce’s unsmiling face stared straight ahead.

I learned more from Finn that I’ve learned from most people, so here’s hoping I can write story animals who are nearly as entertaining.