Florida Bound: The Trip Down (90-Day Retrospective) You may ask: how could the PauperDog possibly fall off a cliff, given the flat terrain of southeastern Georgia? Well, if you’re talking a natural cliff, there’s not much chance of that. But falling off a manmade concrete cliff in a field behind a truckstop? That, she could manage. We make good time from our PHROW through the rest of South Carolina, and are almost through Georgia when I decide I need coffee and the PauperDog needs a walk. Knowing she will want to stretch her legs for a while, I lock the loaded car, being careful to take my keys and handbag with me. My plan is to dig out my cellphone while the dog is walking, and tell my potential roommate in Titusville that I’m still 8 hours away. Because the dog is reasonably good at stopping and staying when I give her the command – she obediently subsides into a sitting position, while grumbling and protesting the whole time—I don’t see the harm of letting her sniff around for the perfect pee spot, dragging her retractable leash behind her. She’s too slow to catch a rabbit even if she were to flush one out, and the field isn’t close to the highway. When I look up from dialing Michele’s number, I can see my dog picking her way happily through the thistle and quackgrass about 20 feet away, cataloguing all the new smells, her tail in the up periscope position that means she’s interested and excited. When I look up again, seconds later, she has vanished. Gone. For a few seconds, I stare at the spot where dog has turned to not-dog. Then I run towards it, only to see a gaping chasm in the ground with PauperDog at the bottom of it. With her unerring Catahoula Leopard Dog/Lab Retriever affinity for finding rotten carcasses, mud puddles, stagnant ponds and filth of all types, she has either jumped or fallen down a 6-foot concrete embankment into a cesspool, and is floundering in the stinking muck. To top it off, her retractable leash has become threaded through the briars at the edge of the dropoff. Okay, the obvious thing to do is throw down handbag and cell phone, untangle the leash, and try to pull her out by it. Freeing the thin, tangled leash from the briar bushes -- while the dog pulls on it as she frolics in the muck, is harder than it should be -- the flexible, thorn-laden branches keep whapping me in the face as I tug and untangle. Jesus Christ, I shout, along with every profane embellishment. (And I really, really hope He forgives me. I have the hopeful theory that “taking the Lord’s name in vain” actually has to do with being sworn in and then lying under oath, or praying to God for some wickedness to befall another human being, and that my cursing could be taken as a sort of profane prayer. If tears are liquid prayers, as some people claim, that can’t frustrated cursing be a poorly edited, uncensored prayer? Or is it just…blasphemy? What do you think?) A few seconds later, I have more to curse about. It turns out that a retractable leash purchased on a Pauper’s budget from the Dollar Store is not up to the task of hauling an 85-lb dog six feet up a concrete retaining wall, and it instantly snaps in half. I hurl it off into the bushes and start shouting to PauperDog. “Climb up! Come here!” I shout, clapping my hands to show I mean it. I add “NOWWW!” which a training expert told me to use in extreme conditions to punctuate a command -- apparently it sounds like a loud growl -- and she obediently makes a feeble attempt to scale the wall before slipping back down, eyes rolling apologetically, mouth agape. She doesn’t seem too upset once she’s back frolicking in the muck; I think she’s actually having a ball. But when she wants to get out and can’t, I know she’s going to panic. Now what?! This is where I need a righteous good ol’ boy with a rope—or even better, a block and tackle -- to pull my overweight Yankee dog from the Georgia drainage ditch that her stupid Yankee owner has let her fall into. I take back everything I said about rednecks. I could use a good-natured, pot-bellied, strong-armed hound-dog-savvy redneck hero about now! (…A-yup, little lady, your mutt has done fallen into some mess there fer sure. Let’s see if we kin haul her out…) But the truckstop is hundreds of yards away, and the muck is exerting a quicksand-like pull on my Pauperdog, who is becoming less successful by the minute at staying on top of it. She is a strong swimmer, but the mud and water seem to be acting like quicksand, pulling her deeper the more she struggles. There’s nothing to do but slide down the embankment, into unspeakable disgustingness, and try to lift her out. I always felt that I was strong, more than strong enough to do anything life required of me, but floundering in filthy ooze up to my waist, trying to get a grip on this slippery, scratching, struggling 85-lb dog and hefting her straight up in the air and above my head is beyond me. She turns out to be much harder to lift than a barbell. Once I almost manage it, but topple sideways, and have to use all my strength to pry myself out of the muck. There’s no footing, nothing to help me keep my balance, and again and again we fall into the ooze. I’m starting to despair, and the unbearable stench isn’t helping. The whole situation seems surreal. One minute you’re tooling down I-95, marveling at the warm, spectacular air streaming through the open windows and the colors of the Georgia sunset, and you’re thinking you could maybe get used to the sound of Trace Adkins singing about Honky Tonk Badonkadonk, and five minutes later you and your dog are trapped in a filthy culvert, with no help in sight. It’s desperation, desperation and rage and revulsion that give me the strength to finally get a good grip on PauperDog’s slimy collar – which is not Dollar Store stock and doesn’t break – and lift her and position her so her claws can get some traction on the concrete wall. I push upwards with the last bit of my strength, and she scrambles up and out and I’m right behind her. Reeking, dripping, black with mud, bleeding from thorns and scratches, I find the cell phone and purse where I dropped them, but the car keys have flown out and can’t be found. Anywhere. Now we’re stuck here, in this field, with no extra money to spend on a locksmith to get me back into the Camry, which contains everything I own, not to mention being our only transportation. I should never have left Jersey. I should never try to go anywhere, ever again. I should stay in my adopted home state, where I know people, where people know me, where something like this never would have happened. Where the powers-that- be would automatically have put up a chain link fence around a disgusting hazard like the cesspool, no questions asked. But five minutes later, I find the keys, glowing dully in the fading light under a giant bull thistle plant. Near — but thankfully not in — a giant fire ant mound that I had failed to notice earlier. And finding the keys is what makes me know everything will be all right. I pull the thorns from my arms and neck and douse a chastened PauperDog with water from the gas station hose – for some reason, thrashing around in putrid slime is a treat, but clean water applied directly from the hose is a horror show – then turn the hose on myself, which has the effect of making my blouse completely see-through. I brave the stares of the customers in the truckstop, drip all over the linoleum on my way to the ladies’ room, and spend 15 minutes bashing away at the soap dispenser to get half a cup of soap foam, which I throw over PauperDog and myself, then turn the hose on us again. Back to the ladies’ room for paper towels to dry off PauperDog, but this is unsuccessful because she has the kind of thick, double-textured fur that takes hours to dry. I lock her in the car, which will reek of wet dog for the rest of the trip, then try to access my suitcase, which is packed under layers and layers of heavy boxes and bags in the trunk. I end up drying the clothes I am wearing under the ladies’ room hand dryer, which means bending and twisting like a contortionist. (But this demonstrates another point about the greatness of truckstops: the ladies’ rooms have paper towels AND hand dryers!) I had pictured everything differently. I had pictured pulling up to Michele’s house, maybe a little travel-weary, but still in a nice, clean car, with nice clothes, with my dog sweet-smelling and well-behaved and bedecked in her new red collar. I had wanted to put my best foot forward. I didn’t want Michele to know what kind of hot mess she was taking on by having a Pauper and PauperDog live with her. Now, the dog and I are both filthy, in spite of my efforts, and I’m exhausted and the dog is traumatized and the car is bug-spattered on the outside and damp and smelly on the inside. But once we’re heading down I-95 again, with velvety darkness beginning to descend, my spirits rise. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that the radio station is playing Rascal Flatts, a country band that I would actually pay to see (if I weren’t a Pauper). And the song is “Moving On,” with its measured cadence, majestic strings and pure, yearning vocal track. Not only that, the lyrics are appropriate. Eerily so. The beauty of the song fills the car like a benediction. PauperDog, feeling the change in mood, creeps forward from the backseat and nuzzles my shoulder in apology for all the uproar she has caused. In this way, we cross the state line into Florida.
Posted on: Fri, 26 Jul 2013 23:12:11 +0000
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