Monday, February 4, 2008

Hurley's Law

This weekend (after taking Hurley for a six mile walk then beating the streets for my own five mile run) I was doing my usual Saturday cleaning, which included massive amounts of laundry.

I let the dog stay outside while I venture into the basement to sort my colors. After about two minutes of switching my wet clothes from the washer to the dryer, I emerge from the basement with an arm full of wet underwear to an empty yard.

After circling the house and still finding no Hurley, I run upstairs to drop off my clothes, grab his leash, and head back to the street to find my dog. The moment I pulled the door behind me and heard the soft click of the lock, I remembered my keys were sitting inside on the table next to my door -- mere inches from my hands, separated by nothing but two inches of door. So is my cell phone.

My legs are tired, I'm wearing my spandex winter running apparel, my hair is electric shock style, I don't know my landlord's phone number, I don't have a phone to call her anyway, B is at work for the next five hours, and my dog is probably off being hit by multiple cars.

After a long period of fruitless dog-searching, and a number of failed attempts of breaking into the apartment windows from the fire escape, I walked to the Mapes down the street to see if I could borrow their phone.

While dejectedly sitting on the dirty, carpeted steps that are reminiscent of the color of a post-Mexican meal hurl-fest waiting for one of my parents to show up, already composing how I'm going to tell B that our dog was killed by a brutal hit and run, Hurley decides to come happily gallivanting back into the yard. Thank the Lord, he's in one piece, and relatively clean, but I keep getting a whiff of something God-awful coming from him a mysterious dog location.

My mom pulls up, I hop in the car with Hurley, she drives me to B's work where I pick up the keys, and jump into his car to drive home. With Hurley in the backseat, the apartment keys in my pocket, and my aching legs finally at rest, I feel suddenly calm after the last few hours of frenzy.

And then Hurley hurled. Not just your average puppy chunks, but a projectile vomit of raw mystery sewage all over the cloth backseat, seeping into the crevices, the door, and the window. Then there was the smell. As the scent of whatever he ate on his hour-long joy ride through the neighborhood wafted through the car, I leaned my tearing head out the window as I feel my own upchuck reflex working overtime.

With all four windows down, the cold winter air whipping through the car, and my sleeve serving as a makeshift gas mask, the scent of raw, acidic sewage mixed with human/dog/questionable shit was overwhelming for the 20-minute ride home.

But when the day was over, the car was cleaned (although I can still catch a whiff of that wonderfully acid vom), and the Hurler was happily chewing his bone on the living room floor, I still got nothin' but loooove. Now that's messed up.

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