So, on Thursday I had a really bad idea.
My boss was catching a flight out of town and needed me to drop something off before he left for the airport. But it was also time for Petey’s next walk, and I was afraid if I left him alone in the apartment, he would have an accident. Plus, my new co-worker was in the office that day. She reads this blog, adopted her own dog from a shelter, and has asked about Petey. I was like – fuck it. I’ll just put Petey in my bike basket and ride over with him in there. I rationalized, It’s a short ride, I’ve seen people do this before (yeah, with the deep-style baskets in the front, not the shallow kind you have in the back), plus it would be great if Stephanye could meet Petey. (Famous last words:) It’ll be okay.
So, I put a catalogue in there first (so his feetsies wouldn’t fall through the big mesh – aren’t I super kind?), and plunk him in there and lie through my teeth when I tell him Don’t worry, Petey. You’ll be OK. It might seem scary, but just go with it. And we’re off. And everything’s OK for the first two seconds. My arm is behind me, petting Petey, and I’m talking calmly to him, completely b.s.’ng reassuring him that this is fun and OK and he doesn’t need to worry. But then we go over one of Tel Aviv’s 50 foot high curb cuts, and the next thing I know, Petey’s outta there – the jolt having scared him so badly, he jumped right outta da basket.
Fuck.
He was OK. No bruises. Didn’t yelp. No broken ribs, or sprained legs. Didn’t bite my face in retaliation. Fuck, man – this was such a bad idea. Because as bad as that just was, I really need to hightail my ass to the office before my boss splits or I’m effed. Fuck. Wuddum-eye gonna do? Put Petey back in the basket, of course. But at least I have the sense to stay off the bike and just push it – keeping one hand on the handlebars to steer, and one hand on Petey to not kill him. But this is just too damn slow.
Eureka! Lace up, Petey – you’re goin’ jogging. I get back on the bike, hold the leash in my right hand around the handlebar, and start riding, albeit slowly. Petey stays lockstep. It’s OK. Sometimes he wants to pull over and whiff some stale dog pee or whatevs scent on the sidewalk, but – sorry, Pete, we got places to go, peeps to meet, and the tug of the bike moving forward keeps him moving, too.
We make it in time. It’s fine. We split. Same strategy home – the Petey-runs-along-side thing. But, not exactly. At first, Petey keeps kamazeeing the bike’s front wheel, or worse – trying to run in front of it. Stoopid, mofo – what r u doing!?! Then, I realize he just likes being next to the wall along the sidewalk, and this wasn’t a problem on the way over, b/c he was. So, I put him on the other handlebar, and we’re back in business.
Except not quite. Petey’s putting up more resistance than on the way over. Little guy was probably tired. So, he’s trying to dig in and stop us, only I’m not having it, and I keep peddling. Now, I’m going very slowly, people. It’s not like I’m Berry, King or Brewer and Petey was James Byrd, Jr., or anything.
Plus, like if I see another dog with owner up ahead, I’m like Fuck! Petey’s totes gonna pull me and the bike on top of him to go sniff that dog. Or, I’ll see two moms and their kids stopped on the sidewalk gabbing, and I’m like Fuck! They’re totes gonna see me dragging this adorable puppy down the sidewalk and fucking throw rocks at me.
But we make it back home, and everything’s fine. Thank God.
Later that night, as I was walking Petey, it really hit me hard how lucky I was. Petey could so easily have been hurt, broken a tiny puppy rib Mmm, ribs… and needed to be hospitalized. Not saying I almost killed him, but a hospitalization now would’ve sucked big time. All the training and bonding we’d accomplished would’ve been wiped out if we were separated. It would’ve just fucked the whole bonding process up spectacularly, and I would’ve been blowing the most fabulous gift & opportunity I’ve been given, which is to be Petey’s one and only Daddy.
I felt an infusion of gratitude and knew I’d been given a second chance. I won’t fuck this up, God. I promise to take care of Petey right.
Leave a Comment so far
Leave a comment
Gefilte Fish Out of Water 