Fred

I’m going to Denver this weekend. This is one of those times of the year that you all probably wish that you were teachers too because we get Friday off for Veteran’s Day and in one week, we'll be off for Thanksgiving vacation (go on, ask why you waste your tax money even paying us). I wish I could tell you that I was going to Denver for a romantic rendezvous, but the truth is, I am going to Denver to visit my dad, Shorty. My poor father not only had the misfortune to marry a woman who was taller than he was, but then had cheeky daughters who outgrew him by the time they were teenagers. My sister gave him the nickname, and my daughter has already been told that she cannot use it until she surpasses him in height (sometime next year at the rate that she’s going). There is no question of whether my daughter will be going to Denver with me; my dad probably wouldn’t let me in the door, or at the very least would charge me a hotel fee if I failed to bring him his only grandchild. No, the real question here is if I will bring my dog, Fred. Fred has his own nickname, given to him by my ex-husband. Fred’s nickname is Puke, thus the mental debate about whether I want to load him into the car for an hour long car ride.

Fred was a pound dog. I did not mean to get Fred. We just went to look, but if you haven’t been to the Humane Society lately, those people are really pushy. I stopped for less than fifteen seconds, squatting outside this black lab mutt’s cage to let him sniff my hand.

“He’s cute,” a gum popping, blond little thing in a smock said, pulling out the keys to the cage.

“Uh, yes, he is.” I reflexively stepped back to allow her in.

“Shall I take him out for you?” The key was in the lock and turning.

“Um…well…he’s a bit big for what we had in mind. We have a three year-old, and we were thinking about Beagle-size.”

“Oh really,” she’s leashing the dog at this point. “Why don’t you just take him out and at least let him go to the bathroom.”

So I did (good thing she wasn’t trying to sell me property in Florida). He really had no interest in me at all. He was obviously incredibly well potty trained and had his eyes on the prize that was resting just inside a rather unpleasant-smelling chain-linked area. After watching him bound around, happy to not have to worry about a bladder infection, he followed me back inside where I waited for someone to come and take this animal back to his cage. No one did. Finally, I sat cross-legged on the floor with my daughter and the dog plopped next to us. We pet him simply because while we were waiting, we had nothing better to do. Women with smocks kept walking past, but none of them seemed too concerned that I had one of their animals and was camping out on their floor amidst all of the foot traffic. When I was finally able to stop one of them long enough to explain that the dog was still too big, she said, “Oh, that’s too bad. Well, I think this puppy needs a name, and a sign, so that people will stop passing him by.” The evil little thing then turned to my daughter and said, “What do you think we should name him?”

Wow, they’re good, and we ended up taking Fred home.

Fred has not been an easy dog. My first dog was a lab mix too, and he chewed until I thought I would go mad. Fred was not a chewer; he was, oh, how do I put this…psycho. The first day that we left him alone, he clawed up the wood by the front door, broke a metal latch on one of the windows and ripped the phone cord out of the wall. We tried caging him. He ripped up whatever bedding we put in there with him, and once chewed the cage so badly, his gums bled. My step-dad handymanned a huge divider for the dining room so that we could try to contain him a bit without allowing him to cause physical harm to himself. He jumped it and then ended up knocking the divider off of its hinges trying to get back into the dining room. I tried leaving the television on and buying herbal doggie Prozac from the natural food store up the street. Nothing worked for poor Fred. Miraculously, just before I was about to go kegogi and kimshe on him, he calmed down.

Unfortunately, that was not where the problems with Fred ended. And that’s where we get to the whole Denver conundrum. While Fred is not aware that he hates cars, he really hates cars. The first time I put him in the car for just a short trip across town, we were on the interstate and I smelled dog food. Fred rides in the back, behind my daughter. She smelled it too. I had to stop at the next exit and try to clean huge chunks of brown Iams clots out of the car as best as I could with my windshield scraper (as a mom, you would think I would’ve been better prepared). I figured it was a nerves issue, and once he settled down, he would be as happy to go on trips as every other dog I knew. We took him to Denver in the new car (why? couldn’t tell you). He did okay until we reached University Avenue. He started foaming at the mouth, badly. I turned on my soothing voice and reached to the back seat to pet him. “It’s okay, Fred. Calm down, buddy. We’re almost there. It’s going to be okay.” It wasn’t. We broke that new car in pretty quickly that day.

I’ve owned Fred for over a year now. I keep thinking he’s going to outgrow this, but in September I took him to my sister’s in Manitou. Fine on the way there, not on the way back. He started drooling excessively, and I started in with my calm voice again. “See, Fred, we are on our street. We are almost home. Just hold it until we get you in the yard.” He lost it right as I pulled into the driveway.

My vet recommended Benydryl. This is the route I’ll go if he comes with us this weekend. We’ve tried it before, combined with no food the day of the trip. It worked on the way there. It failed on the way back.

I hate to think of Fred being left behind with my mother or my sister, although he’d be fine and probably love it. But he’s been giving me really huge, sad eyes lately, so I think he knows a decision is in the air. Like all dogs, especially labs, he’s happiest when he is with the people that he loves most in the world. But my sanity here rests on having a weekend where I do not have to wipe dog bile out of the back of my car with the towel I use to check my oil. And honestly, I worry that I’ll never be able to clean it up all the way, and come summer, when the car sits in the sun and bakes, we’re going to be smelling Fred again. I have two days to make my decision...maybe I'll sleep on it.

On a side note, my daughter and I have recently taken to affectionately calling Fred "Sir Fartsalot", but that's a story we'll save for another day.