Tom Schreck - Out Cold

I cracked open a Schlitz, hit the remote, and eased back on to my couch to watch a little TV. My arm rested on the plain wood of the arm. I noticed bite marks on the wood, though not many. Apparently, Al didn't need to add wood fiber to his diet at this time.

CNN was still breaking down the 'Massacre at the People of God Church' and profiled their leader Rukhaber. They went over his history as an Iraqi vet and his career as a 'private contractor' in a private security force. The news people discussed the role of private security in relation to the army. The best I could figure, they were mercenaries doing pretty much the same thing soldiers did, only for a lot more money. At some point Rukhaber had a falling out with his employers and turned into the fanatical, nutjob, church guy. Al sat at my feet staring at me without blinking. He hummed progressively louder in a way I've come to know builds to a crescendo-the kind of bark that goes through your head like an ice pick. I hated that bark and did whatever I could to circumvent its occurrence. The Schlitz was cold and the couch felt good, but no amount of denial could prevent the oncoming barking, so I knew time had come to give Al what he wanted. The building urgency from Al meant he wanted either to eat or walk. The fact of the matter was he always wanted to eat, but sometimes he needed to walk. 'Walk' is actually just a polite euphemism for taking a shit, but society kind of frowns on the use of that terminology in social conversation. Nonetheless, Al's walks often looked like crawls where he slowly sniffed the ground for an hour looking for the exact right spot to leave his fecal calling card. Al put in his day planner ever morning, with an A2 priority next to it. Eating got an A1 for first priority, while A3 penciled in his twenty-two hours of daily sleep. The rest of the task list items were minor activities centered on annoying me.

So, despite how comforting the Schlitz-couch continuum, it was time to let Al lead me down Route 9R in search of the ultimate canine crapping experience. I got up from the couch, which signaled to my friend a walk's eminence. I put on my sneakers and he went off, not being able to control his glee at the thought of taking a crap in tall grass. When I got the leash it sent him over the top, and he jumped up and kicked me in the nuts. I don't like getting kicked in the nuts.

I doubled over in pain and repeatedly yelled the word 'fuck' which I believe Al mistook for 'walk' This got him even more excited and he jumped up and headed butted me which sent a thick throb through my cranium. I followed that action with more 'fucks' and Al got even more revved up. Before I could get the leash fastened Al took a leak on the carpet in front of the door.

I love the company and unconditional love of a pet.

Al waddled his way down 9R busily searching for the exact ideal spot to do his thing. His waddling got more pronounced and the telltale back arch seemed to indicate something, but he wasn't quite ready. It took another half mile before he went all the way and left a fifteen-pound prize on the side of the road. I did my best to imitate a Sea World deep-diving showman by not breathing. I didn't time my exhalation correctly and my respiratory system forced me to do a gigantic inhalation. I snorted like I was in the VIP room of Studio 54 in '77. Al's essence filled my sinus cavities until my body rejected it and I went into a coughing spell. Al ignored me and lay down next to it and closed his eyes. The whole curved back, muscle contraction thing involved in this bodily act had made him sleepy.

I wasn't ready to stand in the funk watching Al go into REM, so I began to walk, pulling him. I don't know if you've ever taken an 85-pound Basset out for a drag, but it isn't a lot of fun. I've always thought they should add it as an event in that bizarre 'World Strongest Man' competition you see on ESPN late at night. It could be put right after they make the Bulgarian guy carry an AMC Gremlin on his back while he walks through molasses. They'd have to cover the basset in Vaseline or something to prevent road burn' or put him in a spandex suit' but I'm sure they could work it out.

Al began to come to about twenty yards into our drag. He stopped and did the tornado-basset thing to clear his jowls and than reluctantly joined me in the walk. Because there are no sidewalks and because there aren't many humans inhabiting the region' I reasoned it was permissible for me to leave Al's biodegradable contribution to the eco system in its natural state and not pick it up.

That, and the fact I found it disgusting.

We made it back to the Blue. I grabbed the keys to the Caddy and went to head out to the medical center. Al beat me to the door and got in between me and the knob. When I'd go to grab the knob he'd jump up and knock my hand away from it. This was his subtle way of letting me know he wanted to come along.

I knew better than to fight with Al, so I opened the passenger side of the El Dorado and hoisted him up. His tail wagged; he knew he had conned me into giving him what he wanted. He gave me a look that half said, 'Thank you Duffy, you're a kind and benevolent master' and 'Duffy, you're a sap.'

Shortly after he proceeded to commence drooling on the orange velour of my passenger seat. He started a fresh spot, of course, because it just isn't any fun drooling into an existing and crunchy old drool spot. Other than the drool oozing from Al's mouth he remained motionless on the trip.

We pulled into the medical center parking lot. I cracked a couple of the windows and headed to the entrance. Al did not accept this move. He began to bark in rapid-fire progression, then alternated the bark riot with long Ahoooos. People started to stare and a security guard began to walk toward me, so I headed back to the car and got him out. He cheerfully plopped down on the pavement and looked up at me as if to say, 'What next?'

Next was how to get Al into the hospital and up to Karl's room. I had been caught trying to pass Al off as a therapy dog at a nursing home. Suffice it to say I didn't convince anyone there, and there were probably posters of him and me all over nursing stations in Crawford. I decided to take my chances. We headed in the main entrance past the reception desk. At the desk sat a woman of maximum density, wearing a headset and a thin, but very visible, black mustache and a dress resembling something you might throw over your boat to protect it in the winter.

Ironically, a big sign hung next to her desk. It said 'Snack Attack Collection Site: Bring in Canned Meat!' I knew it was for the soldier thing, but it was an odd juxtaposition of messages next to this particular receptionist.

"Oh, a new therapy dog! Isn't he precious!" she yelled to us across the desk.

My therapy dog is a sap for affection and charged the receptionist with a forceful gusto that broke him free from my grasp.

"Oh, what a sweet boy. You're a good boy!" She said. Al stood on his two back legs, his front paws resting on the receptionist's ample bosom, licking her face. She had her eyes closed and was taking it all in.

It was like a car wreck and I couldn't not watch.

"What's his name. He's gorgeous!"

"His name is Al," I said. Al dropped down to all fours. "He's a good boy."

Al had worked his way in between the woman's thighs. She tried unobtrusively, to nudge him away, but he resisted and stuck his nose right between her legs.

It was a socially awkward moment.

"Al is a basset hound." I heard myself say. The receptionist looked at me, strained to push Al's nose away.

"Basset hounds are scent hounds and they are bred for hunting and tracking small animals like rabbits, gophers, or woodchucks." I had no idea why I went on like this, but I felt I had to say something.

Al sneezed and the receptionist yelped