And the Pup’s Name is…

… is going to come out in it’s own good time.  In a few minutes.  Indulge me.

We left here at 8am.  Cruising singlemindedly down I-96 to 696, up 75, and through 300 miles of red lights and annoying traffic, we finally arrived at the farm.

The farm was laid out as hospitals and churches can be laid out – with no part appearing to the untrained eye as if they are related in any way.  So we looked around while the kids did this electron orbital cloud thing about us, never ceasing, never pinned down.

I had some sort of stomach thing going on from some chinese food I ate last night so I begged off to use the bathroom before going to see the mother dog and our puppy.  From my side of the 700 year old dual bathroom’s thin walls I could hear Cruel Wife shriek “No nononono-NO!  YOU NEVER PUT YOUR HAND IN THE TOILET!  YUCKY!”

Ah, so the boy had followed the wife into the latrine.  Heh heh heh.

Anyway, sometime later after I had waited an appropriate interval, we all trouped on down to the office where they had the dogs.  There was some loud industrial crushing equipment or ore pulverizer machines going in the back room so I had trouble catching much of what was said.  It would have been better had I just put in totally sound-deadening earplugs because even though I have moderately bad hearing loss, the recruitment issues mean that loud noises actually hurt me WORSE than people with normal hearing.  Yeah, go figure.

I nod encouragingly every so often even though for all I know she is telling me about her gender reassignment surgery and her induction into the Church of Rooster Worship.  She seemed satisfied so I didn’t want to upset the boat.  Then the pup was brought out (previously known as Zola).  I held her and within minutes was completely smitten with her and pretty much wouldn’t share her with anyone.  It was bad.  Cruel Wife knew I wanted a dog but she had no idea the magnitude of my yearning for a dog.  First 20 years of my life there was pretty much a dog around all the time.

So Zola comes out and is shivering and panting and more than a bit sweaty.  She’d lost a lot of litter-mates in the last few days and was pretty wigged.

We signed a sheaf of papers that would make a mortgage lender blanch and got her registration papers and health paperwork and pretty much got a swat on the butt and sent on our way.  We got complimentary donuts and cider but I wasn’t having any of it.  I sat on the grass with my dog.  I kept saying it to myself, and it was pathetic:  “My dog.  MY dog.  My DOG.  MY DOG.  mY dOG. … ”  Well, you get the idea.

30 years later the kids and the wife finish their goodies and time kicks into it’s normal pace again.  Powdered sugar hangs in the air and crumbs tumble to the grass in slow motion, and the kids have these glassy stares and smoky expressions.  The wife, having completed her maternal duties of feeding the offspring – hungry or not – is satisfied and we leave.

We get in the SUV (doing my part to help terrorism, apparently) and start down the road.  Five miles down the road, I notice that she is frothing at the mouth a bit and suddenly horks up a HUGE wad of puppy chow.  I remember thinking that she must’ve gotten the same chinese carry-out that I did.   So this wad of wet puppy chow boils over my flannel shirt on my right arm, onto the arm rest of the door, into the door latch mechanism, and makes this sickening plop on the floor.

Crickets did not chirp, they barfed in sympathy.  Me, I held my own.

Well at least we got that out of the way!  Not unexpected, and  I console her and tell her it’s all right and that she couldn’t help it.

Just as I got all settled in again she started stiffening up and straightening out then leaning forward and blew approximately the same amount of chunks onto my wife’s flannel shirt (I was prepared this time).  It cascaded over the shirt and ran onto the floor.

Crickets heaved weakly.  Me, I held my own.

Oh, it’s ok, pup.  You can’t help that you are hot, scared, and in a car.  It’s ok.

Coming back to 96 via 696, she horks up again with very little warning all over my lap.  On both legs from crotch to knees, my hands, forearms, and onto the floor. Her toenails were fighting for position with her tail to decide who was going to come up next.

Crickets burped bile.  Me, I fought wave after wave of nausea as I smelled her stomach acid and something else.

She felt all better after that and went to sleep next to me, between me and the console.  Me, I continued to fight wave after wave of nausea.  Crickets vacated the premises.

We arrived home 2 hours after we left the farm and put out water and food.  She was surprisingly in very little distress and didn’t seem all that interested in water or food.

She’s slept a LOT, drunk some water, peed a bit, did her #2 in the yard.

And she frolicked in the grass with me, chasing me around and around the yard.

I present to you:

Zöe, nee Zola, at rest this afternoon.

***

Update:

This was such a cool idea, it seems a shame to ruin it… musical highways.