Historical September–October 2018 article. Dates, prices, services and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
It’s amazing how fast things move when you’re trying to stand still. Doesn’t it seem like only yesterday? How was your summer? Mine was pretty active for a body at rest.
I traversed the Iowa highways celebrating family milestones.
I trolled the Wisconsin waterways, like a trailblazer armed with bug spray.
I saw enough of my parents; they fled to Europe just to shake me.
Then I cranked up the DeLorean and went back to high school for my 40th reunion.
The reunion was in Milwaukee; Whitefish Bay High School, honoring the Class of 1978.
The buildup was tremendous, and I began to worry I wouldn’t measure up to my classmates.
On the way, I stopped in Chicago to meet my wife.
She was at a conference for her job, and said she’d like some company.
It turned out she was busy with meetings, and I was relegated to day drinking in the hotel bar.
I walked into the bar and saw an open seat.
In the next seat was a dog, nursing a glass of water.
I asked, “Anybody sitting here?” The dog said, “No, it’s all yours.” I sat down, ordered a Budweiser from the bartender, and said, “Are you one of the Doodle’s?” He flashed a hang dog look, and said “Man, my name’s Dabney, I’m just a mutt. What’s your story?” Maybe it was the puppy dog eyes that did it, but I couldn’t stop yapping.
I told Dabney how I felt about the reunion; I talked about hopes and expectations, lost opportunity and regret. “Dabney, I’m nervous how I’ll be perceived.
I haven’t really accomplished anything with my life.” Dabney slurped his water with his big pink tongue, then looked at me and said, “Just be genuine, don’t try to be something you’re not.
Most people appreciate honesty. It’s worked for me.” I said, “I know, but people love dogs, it’s different with humans.
We can be kind of catty.” I could tell Dabney was impatient, wagging his tail on the bar stool in exasperation.
He growled, “Listen, I live seven years to your one.
I don’t have time to be wistful.
If people won’t accept you for who you are, that’s their fault, not yours.” He let out a little bark to get the bartender’s attention, “Hey Phil! How about another round for me and my friend.” I patted his head and said, “Dabney, you don’t have to do that. Besides, where do you keep your money? You’re not wearing any pants.” He flashed a toothy grin and winked, “I’m a service dog.
I never pay for anything.” I let out a laugh, tousled his fur and rubbed his belly, “There’s a good boy! What a good dog! Thanks for everything Dabney.” I finished my beer and laid down a tip.
I left the bar and met my wife for dinner at Shula’s Steakhouse.
When the server brought out my doggy bag, there was Dabney’s face on the cover.
I could hardly wait for the reunion.
I made the short ride to Milwaukee with my tongue wagging, and head hanging out the window; the wind blowing back my hair. It’s a dog’s world, after all.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, September–October 2018.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times2018_09.pdf, printed page(s) 4; PDF page(s) 4.
