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Since it was already hotter than Aunt Brunetta’s boob sweat outside, I’d dressed in a crazy-patterned retro swing dress, tied my hair up with a light scarf, and slipped strappy low-heeled sandals on. The car was packed—minus me and Max. I even had a shorthand list of homework dating questions in my phone. I hoped it didn’t get graded. I had a nagging feeling that I was forgetting something but I couldn’t imagine what since I’d gone over everything I’d packed at least twice. I shrugged. It was probably something minor.
I called Max and he leapt onto the backseat of my car with such enthusiasm that he sailed clear to the other side without touching down, not stopping until the laws of physics, specifically inertia (you know, that tendency for objects at rest to remain at rest, and for objects in motion to continue in motion, unless acted on by an outside force), kicked in and kicked Max’s butt by smacking him with the opposite side of the car. I could practically see stars circling over his head like a cartoon. He shook it off like the boss he is, and I snapped him into a seat harness for safety.
Max isn’t like most dogs who enjoy car rides. Oh, heck no. The only way I could get him to go anywhere in a vehicle was to bribe promise dog treats and put on a Sinatra CD. He particularly liked My Way. Which figured since Max is a big furry bossy baby. (And also, I’m sure my nonno, who was a small time mobster in Sicily, and maybe even in America, taught Max that Sinatra was the best music ever, and cemented this theory by taking Max for rides around town in his convertible.)
The drive up to Live Oak had been filled with thoughts of dread (just how expendable was I really? And would this dating thing cement my worst fears, causing me to binge on ice cream, tacos, and Netflix?), and the only thing that kept me from hanging a U-turn was the fact that I was wearing good underwear. Really good. Great, in fact. Mostly because if I got into a car accident or mauled by a mutant deer, I’d know my mother wouldn’t freak out as badly as she would if I was wearing my old droopy underwear. Droopy, by the way, means hanging down as from exhaustion or weakness which is a crap way to refer to a person’s undergarments. Surely even those women who are a size four get droopy panties now and then.
Less than an hour later and at least five replays of My Way, we pulled into Live Oak.
Live Oak was a beautiful small town, filled with towering pines, massive oaks, a wild assortment of flowers, and had the requisite town square most Southern towns had. Quaint storefronts lined shady cobblestone streets which were a lovely relief from the busy, modern streets of downtown Atlanta. The whole atmosphere reminded me of ice cream sodas, homemade pies, county fairs, and Friday night football at the local high school.
On slow days, when traffic was scarce (which was nearly always since most people walked or rode bicycles unless it was balls hot out or under an inch of snow), and if business was slow, I let Max make his rounds. (Yes, I taught him how to cross the street safely. Okay, so Bailey did most of the training, but I helped and we put a GPS on his collar, and everyone in town knew him, so yes, he was safe. He was always supervised, and always with Buttercup. Jack even had signs put up warning any newcomers to slow down and watch for fat furry dogs.) Max loves it because the townspeople try to spoil him more than I do.
His general stops included: Scissorhands for a quick brush and style. Goodfellas Pizza for a slice of pie or maybe a cannolo. If it’s later in the day, he makes sure to hit up Hemingway Book Nook for story time with kids. One of his favorite stops is The Jungle Book Pet Store to mooch a free chew toy. Once in a while he’ll take his bone to Die Hard Funeral Home, sit on the porch, chew for a bit, and pay his respects.
I’d gotten an early check in at the hotel, which was actually a swank cabin, and only a few minutes from the Doggie Data Gala thing by foot. I unloaded the car and hooked Max to his leash. Away we went.
Off to the right was O’Malley’s, the town pub which was owned by the O’Dolans (Jack, Greg, Bailey, their parents and Uncle Sean). To the left of the pub sat Bailey and Logan’s two-story home with a huge vet clinic attached. Dog runs sat to the rear, and attached to the side of the clinic was a fenced in football field-sized park area with deep thick grass which now held several numbered orange cones. I noticed a smaller fenced area which looked like a play area for the smaller dogs. I just hoped it wasn’t some sort of doggie time-out/prison as Max would make himself the Big Bad Warden and incite other dogs into a riot.
I thought about making a quick stop into the pub for Irish coffee (minus the Irish since I don’t want drunk and stupid as my first dating impression) but decided I wasn’t ready to possibly run into Jack. I walked Max to the dog park instead.
People were starting to arrive as we walked through the double gated play area. Max instantly went into party mode. He got all tail wagging, butt sniffing, pee dribbling happy.
As we walked onto the field, Bailey was handing out nametags and instructions. When she finished greeting the man ahead of me with his handsome Dalmation, she turned to me and Max.
I got a big hug and Max got a friendly fur ruffle. “It’s glad I am to see ya,” she said, and I squirmed as she gave Max the hard stare. “Jeepers, Soph, I told ya not to be lettin’ Max get fat.”
“Tell my family. They keep sneaking him dog treats.” And steak, too, but no way was I about to admit that to Bailey. “Maybe I should get him a Fitbit.”
“Aye, you could.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure. I can look into the best kind for Max if you’d like.”
And that is why I should not be a smarty pants. “If you think he needs it, yes please.”
“If he’s still fat next time I see him, I’ll get it myself.”
“Is he really that fat?”
“No. But at his age, and the rate he’s gained, he will be if you don’t slow it down. In just a few months, he’s gone from underweight, to just right, to a wee bit pudgy. More exercise, less treats.”
I nodded. Max actually got plenty of exercise, had lots of play time, but I had a sneaky idea he was snitching food from my family. To Italians, food was love. And my family loved Max a lot. “I’ll talk to my family, and I won’t give him fattening snacks. Or pasta either.”
Bailey smiled. “Good to know. Just do your best, and remember, fat is not healthy.”
“Got it,” I said, and gave a smile and a little wave as I pulled Max away from the registration area.
I went to my battle dating station with Max and glanced through the rules. The instructions said that the women stayed in one place and the men rotated. We’d have ten minutes to talk, then ten minutes or so to let our dogs run and play. When Bailey’s whistle blew, we were all supposed to leash our dogs and go back to our assigned stations for the next round. Bad behavior was not acceptable. (Probably meant for dogs, not humans.) Max was well-behaved around people and other dogs, plus he was a big rattlebrained baby, so I didn’t foresee any problems.
Except for maybe the hole Max was currently digging at my feet. First grass, then dirt, was flung at maximum velocity through the air, most of which landed on my shoes and dress. “Max, no! Stop!” I pulled on his harness, but to no avail. I took two steps to the side. Max took none. By the time I’d moved four steps I was leaning sideways, feet planted, and straining. You’d think that being at a forty-five degree angle would budge Max, but no. He was giving the full court press to whatever it was that had his attention. “Bailey is...” Tug, pull. “going to...” Pull, tug, pant. “kick us out!”
Since I couldn’t budge Max, I decided I’d better find out what all the hoopla was about so I stepped close and bent over the hole. Holy Santa Maria, the hole was now nearly a foot deep! Someone could break a leg in that hole! I slipped Max’s leash over my wrist, knelt down, and started shoving dirt back in as fast as I could. Max kept tossing it out. “Knock it off, Max!” And then I saw what must have gotten his attention. A bone. A really ancient dirt-covered bone. Not an entire skeleton or anything. Just a plain old dog bone that had probably been buried two centuries ago. The way he’d been digging, I thought maybe he’d somehow stumbled upon a decomposing body.
If he was that excited over some ancient doggie artifact, I figured the heck with it, he could have the blasted thing. At least we weren’t headed for the six o’clock news.
Anyway, my hands were now covered in red Georgia clay which made me look like I belonged in a slasher movie, so I looked around for a place to wash up.
At one side, against the fence, sat a table full of doggie stuff. Buckets of balls, bubbles, Frisbees, containers of different sized treats (for after play, not during, as can cause greedy behavior) and several clean up stations (poop bags for dogs and hand wipes for humans). There was also plenty of water for both.
Max grabbed his new old bone and we went over to the table. I rinsed, then wiped, my hands clean. Since Max had dirt all over his nose, I gave him a drink and wiped his snout clean. He gave a happy bark and I gave serious thought to poking my eyes out with a fork. No way could I be grumpy with a dog who was so darn glad to have some other dog’s relic to chew on. This from a dog who was accustomed to getting fresh meaty bones from the family restaurant (Try The Veal). I just wouldn’t mention it to my family lest they get their feelings hurt.
When I first got Max, Bailey said dog training would be a work in progress. That it wouldn’t happen overnight, or in a day or a week or even a month. Even though Max had come to me trained in several things, and even though he’d learned how to be a maître d' in our restaurant quickly, he still had some way to go when it came to the more complex obedience issues. Like ‘no’, ‘don’t eat my pizza’, ‘no more whining’, and ‘stop wheedling’. I decided on the spot that I was going to have to work with Bailey more often. Not just Max but me too, since there were no such thing as bad dogs, just bad dog owners. And I wasn’t willing to wear that label.
#JustCallMeCrocodileDundee
#ICouldHaveHadARectalExam
#ItAin’tOverTillTheFatDogBarks