It's a clear, sunny day and we're on the way again. Even though we've settled into a routine of sorts, the journey's still incredibly trying, and I'd be lying if I said I was handling it as well as I thought I would. It's hard to hear those dogs screaming and baying so hard and so long. It's horrible to have to shove them back into their cages after 5 or 10 minutes of freedom. It's tough not to lose your faith in humanity when you reach down to pet one of them and they hit the ground flat like you're about to beat the hell out of them. It's hard to just keep doing it, to keep going.
Last night, in a rest area in Kansas east of Hays, I lost my shit. Just lost it. I was tired and hungry, it was cold outside, we had earlier dealt with a dog in serious GI distress, shitting purple liquid and vomiting green foam, and hosed his crate out in a covert move behind Pizza Hut. It was a lot of work to feed and water the dogs. It took quite a lot out of me. Then a few hours later, in the cold and dark and windy Kansas night, it was time to let them out.
My frame of mind was bad. I was doubting whether all the dogs would survive the trip, the sick one especially, and I had to start the process by letting the Rottweiller out. He dragged me around for a while and did his thing, and then I tried to put him back in his crate. He didn't want to go. This is a dog that has the sweetest temperament, the nicest big lug disposition, and seemingly loves everyone. I pushed, and he held fast and turned to gave me a look that scared me to the bone. I backed off a bit involuntarily, and I grabbed a handful of food and tossed it into the crate. He followed it, and I closed the door, but it really shook me.
And there were still 15 dogs to go.
We did it, one at a time. Cathy had taken out the sick one, now called Flat Stanley, and tied him to a table where he sat silent and patient, watching us, uncomplaining, heartbreaking. There's a shiny little male black labby dog, tiny and stumpy and quiet, who is very good and calm when I take him out. He darts around sniffing, constantly looking up at me for approval or reproval, I'm not sure which, and when he does his thing, he gets a bit excited. So, squatting and fully and painfully erect, hunched over and spiny, totally freaked out, he's staring up into my face, his eyes wide and whites showing, a look of hesitant wonder on his face. When he finally finished and moved a few steps, I gathered the spare leash in my hand and bent and reached to pet him with my other hand and tell him good boy. As I reach, he squints hard and dives quickly to his right shoulder, paws raised in defense against the beating he was surely about to get.
"No, no, it's ok," I said, and he let me pet him and slowly loosened his muscles and opened his eyes. That's when I lost it. The tears came as I crouched down to dog level, petting the dog gently and steadily, saying "It's ok, no more hitting, it's ok, no one's gonna hit you anymore." And once I started, I couldn't stop. I said it was ok over and over, to myself as much as to him. I walked him a bit more after gathering myself, then led him back to his cage and put him in. No resistance, all resignation, and he turned in his cage, which was on the second tier, and pressed the top of his head against my chest in a very Henry-like gesture. He stood and I petted and stroked his head, and he let me, no fear this time.
And I still had 5 dogs to go.
I got back to work, releasing one dog at a time, taking them out, running and walking, petting and playing, occasionally getting choked up and hollow-eyed again, wearing down my spirit as much as my body.
When we were done we drove on, not getting very far before we stopped for dinner and for the night, around 10:30. I've never been so happy to see an Applebees. Steak and shrimp that went down like nothing, with a pint of beer behind it. Drained, we got a room and went straight to bed.
This morning, we were up and at it again at 7am, though we didn't get on the road until 10. Another long day ahead of us.
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