Two days before take-off, she asked if I would be willing to take a different dog, this one to Sandy, Oregon, just an hour east of Portland. Perhaps that was what my little gut instinct was alerting me to: a sudden change in plans (which is precisely why I no longer plan things, but merely prepare.)
START sends up vans in a similar fashion to the run I did two years go, except they have trucks specifically designed for crates, easy access to the dogs the entire time, and have the same folks do the run each month. It is still a bit stressful on the dogs though—on average, sixteen hours in a crate, traveling overnight in a truck with many other canines. It’s the human equivalent of flying to Australia with a bunch of loud, smelly, insecure people and not even having a bathroom onboard.
This new slated passenger of mine was Callie, a nine-year old German Shepherd mix from Riverside shelter. Yup, nine, because people in Los Angeles dump their elderly animals when they just don’t feel like caring for them anymore. This sweet girl originally clocked into the shelter at 66 pounds, but my main concern was her height when I saw the video of her. Her head came up to the man’s waist. Granted, I had no idea how tall this man was, but I was pretty sure regardless, she was quite a bit bigger than Lulu. But thanks to Double Bogey on my original roadtrip, I knew how to set up my truck to give the lass a decently comfortable ride—and I could do it better since I wasn’t jerry-rigging it at a reststop in Kansas.
Of course, I had to wait until I sent Lulu off to her vacation home before cleaning the dog linens, washing the bed, and readying the truck for my new guest. I totally felt like I was cheating on Lulu, discarding of any traces of her existence before allowing the new black dog to take her place.
I had just put everything in the washer when Steve of START Rescue called to say that he had just gotten Callie from the transporter who had brought her from Riverside. I had planned on picking her up around 4pm, and then giving her a bath to wash the shelter off her. However, as luck would have it (for me, not for poor, sweet, old Callie), Callie had an accident on the way up, so Steve was taking her straight to the groomers so I wouldn’t have to drive a shit-covered dog 900 miles. I thought that was rather considerate of him, and although probably a terrible moment for Callie, it really did work in her (and my) favor in the long run.
As soon as the linens were dry, and I had set up my passenger seat, I went to Steve’s to pick up Callie. She didn’t like getting into the vehicle (reasonably so; on the last ride, she shit herself.) Steve updates his supporters in a weekly email blast, and he tried to get a video of Callie taking off for such purpose; jumping into the truck and on her way out of Los Angeles, but the girl just wouldn’t do it. Steve had to set down his video camera (a.k.a. phone) to pick her up and place her in the vehicle.
Not as dramatic, but the intent is the same, even though we were just going back to my house for the night and were going to start the long haul the next morning.
Back at the house, I discovered that this really was quite a life-change for Callie. She questioned the stairs to the deck. She easily went through the door, and when I pointed out the two dog beds she could choose from, she gladly chose one and lay down, but she was a bit miffed by the TV, and had no desire to be on the couch or bed.
I took her outside every two hours, not knowing if she was house-trained, and it appeared she was. However, I have heard the theory that “outside dogs” never go to the bathroom inside simply because it’s not a place they’re accustomed to doing so.
The moment I squeaked a toy, this nine-year old dog because two again. Ears erect, tail wagging, eyes sparkling, she was utterly delighted to play. Despite the strength of her jaws, she was gentle with the toy. She had accidentally chomped down on my hand while trying to get a treat, and it was as though she had a “soft mouth” like the labs who carry ducks for hunters. Her eyes were foggy, and I wondered how much she could see through the cataracts. But in spite of the lack of sight, and the onset of age, toys are still gloriously fun.
As for the actual first night, it was rougher on me than her, even though she was lying a on a bed two times smaller than she was.
Twenty minutes after falling asleep, I was awakened by her muzzle in my face and a small whine.
“Do you have to go out?” I asked, even though we had just been out. “It’s okay, hun. Go back to bed.”
I gave her a pet and a hug and she returned to her bed.
An hour later, a muzzle and whine again in my face. “What’s wrong, Callie? Sweetie, you’re safe now. Is it still scary, cause it’s new? Don’t worry. You’re safe now.” I gave her another pet and a hug and she returned to her bed.
Half an hour later, she was at my bedside. I was never going to get up at 6am at this rate. Maybe she did have to go out. I took her out and she dutifully peed, but that clearly wasn’t the problem.
Back to bed, I said goodnight, shut off the light, and got two hours this time, before she woke me up again. I took her back outside, just in case, and she went again, but I knew that wasn’t is. I thought perhaps she was just scared and needed me to pet her.
“Do you want to come up on the bed?” I asked. That way I could just rest my hand on her and we finally both could sleep. But no, she didn’t want to. When I tried to lift her, she let out a yelp like I hurt her but I hadn’t even put any pressure on her body. Steve’s initial hypothesis of her hating the car might still be true, but the main fear seems to be people picking her up.
I left a step stool by the bed and told her she was welcome to come up. She shyly declined, circled three times, and flopped down on the tiny dogbed. Three hours later, the sun was just coming up, and I although not fully ready, I, too, had to get up.
Callie had a rough time getting into the vehicle for take-off once more. I placed her front paws on the seat and as I attempted to lift her back end, she simultaneously collapsed like a ragdoll, allowing her front feet to fall out of the vehicle and land in the driveway. A few ungraceful attempts made by me and one traumatized dog later, Callie was ready to roll.
We spent our first few hours arguing about the shifter in the center console. Just like Bogey, Callie’s paws were drawn to it, even to the point of wrapping both front feet around it, holding it like a three-year old holds an ice cream cone. I used a couple travel books to try to block her feet, but they weren’t stable.
Luckily a few true truckstops still exist, and it was there that I found a clipboard to purchase and use as an effective wall. Callie even used it to rest her head later on.
At the end of our first rest stop venture, Callie once more wouldn’t get herself up into the vehicle. I attempted to lift her, and she did her whole canine magic trick that involves severely increasing their weight by changing her center of gravity to around five feet below the earth’s surface. When I finally got her into the passenger seat, I told her that if getting her into the vehicle was going to involve this much drama each time, then we just weren’t going to stop as often.
At the next stop, I gave her the option to get up herself, but when she turned away, I made a motion to pick her up. Immediately she backed away.
“Okay, fine. Do it yourself then,” I said with a snotty shrug.
Challenge accepted. Callie turned around to rev herself up, and then in one solid leap, landed in the passenger seat. I guess this girl just needed to be dared.
I was ridiculously excited and praised her loudly and hugged her, and every person at the rest stop turned to us with mutually confused expressions, wondering why I was so excited to get my own dog into the car.
From that moment on, Callie became a calmer, better co-pilot. She still sometimes needed assistance getting into the vehicle (but wanted to do it herself), and she still preferred that I have one hand on her at all times. But sleep finally overtook her, and for the final few hours to our first layover she snoozed contently, even dreaming.
Sometimes plans change; sometimes, life changes. For me, it was a simple change of passenger, as I hadn’t really planned but only prepared. For Callie, her entire life changed: twice. It changed when she arrived at the shelter. And it changed Sunday morning when she was released from the shelter and began her northward adventure with me.
It’s never too late to change your path and it’s never too late to help another change theirs. You just have to believe you can, and take one giant leap. Trust, and you just might find yourself in a cushy front seat, sailing 70mph towards a beautiful new future.
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