Dixieland - 2nd Installment…

I should’ve know that things were going to go awry the second I got off the phone with the folks at Happy Labs Rescue.  For starters, we had trouble deciding on a meeting place.  We discussed this place and that, and after much debate, we finally settled on Columbus, OH.   Then I had trouble finding a hotel room for the night - since it was an eight-hour drive, I’d decided to go in a day early - and the search took better than two hours.   But the second I had a confirmation number in hand, the weather went to hell in a handbasket.   And to top it off, the friend who was supposed to make the drive with me didn’t get my message until AFTER I hit the road.  [AT&T really oughta do something about their sloppy voice mail delivery service!]

The only thing that didn’t go wrong was Mark’s attitude.  He told me to do whatever I had to do to collect our new baby, and not to give it a second thought.  What’s more, he meant it.  [Gotta love a man like that!  ;)]

Still…anyone with two brain cells to rub together would’ve waited to pick her up until the collection of blizzards and ice storms had passed.  It wouldn’t have been any big deal.  She was already safe and sound, and the rescue folks were more than willing to hang onto her for me.  But no…I couldn’t wait - obviously, the two brain cells I had left had no intention of becoming friendly - and something trivial like the weather certainly wasn’t going to deter me. 

As ridiculous as that sounds, though, there was a  particular reason I was in such a hurry.  You see, my dear friend, Pam, is a ghost-whisperer.  Not just any ghost-whisperer, mind you…but the real deal.  And a few months earlier - right out of the blue - she’d delivered a message for me from Sadie:  She was happy, healthy, ready to come back again; all we had to do was find her.  And because of all the clues connected with Ruby - in case you missed them, they’re outlined in my last blog - there was no doubt in my mind that this particular dog was my Sadie reborn.   So, you can see why I wasn’t about to waste any time in picking her up and bringing her home.

With that in mind, I packed the car and took off for Ohio.  The first few hours went fine.  I drove through a few snow flurries but nothing very serious.  It wasn’t until I got to the Allegheny Mountains that things got really scary - try driving 30 0r 40 miles with a windshield encased in a half-inch of mud-splattered ice in 9 degree weather that renders the wipers useless with no way to turn around - but after a lot of praying and cursing and wishing my Mama hadn’t raised a fool, I made it through.  And before dark that night, I was sitting in a comfy bed, eating a Chipotle bowl, and thinking happy thoughts about what the morrow would bring.

The only thing that even attempted to mar my happiness was the fact that, although Mark had been extremely supportive and patient with me through this whole ordeal - somebody really oughta name a church after him -  he had some weird ideas about what we should name our new dog.  [Ruby was definitely a temporary name, as keeping it would only bring to mind constant thoughts of the slut Kenny Rogers made famous - and I just wasn't going there.  ;)]  So I gave him a quick call, and offered him what I thought was a solid list of appropriate names from which to choose.  There were only two caveats:  He couldn’t vary from the list, and he couldn’t choose a name until he’d met her.

That handled, I slept like a baby and was ready and waiting when Mike’s van pulled into the hotel parking lot. 

To say that I wasn’t prepared for what awaited me is putting it mildly.  But before we get too far, perhaps I should explain what I was expecting:  A large, gorgeous, energetic, overgrown puppy.  And that, she was.  What I wasn’t expecting was the sheer boundlessness of her energy.  [Folks...this dog could've run the Iditarod in a single day without even panting!]   She pulled me through the hotel lobby like I was a rag doll on skis.  And when we got to the room, she nabbed the toys I’d  brought, and alternated between tossing them in the air and catching them, and throwing them across the room and chasing them as she leapt from one bed to the other.  I’d never seen such a high-spirited dog - and trust me…I’ve seen a LOT!

Fact was, I’d intended to take Mike to breakfast that morning, and had even gone as far as to make arrangements with the hotel staff to leave the pup in the room while I did just that.  But after seeing the extent of her energy levels, and watching her eye the television cables that ran along the lower portion of the wall, I decided that leaving her to her own devices - even for a minute - was an even worse idea than driving through an ice storm.   So I made a nice donation to the rescue organization, and tossed Mike a twenty with instructions to have breakfast on me.  Then I set about deciding whether I should leave her in the room while I loaded the car - or load her first.  [Loading her first won out - though I have to admit that visions of that torn up car scene in Hooch flitted through my mind as I hurriedly got my gear and tossed it in the car, too.]

The car was fine.  So was the dog.  As a matter of fact, she settled right down and went to sleep less than five minutes down the road.  And to top it off, we only stopped twice for potty breaks during the whole eight hour drive.  By the time we pulled into the driveway, in fact, I’d even managed to convince myself that the pup’s overly-exuberant behavior that morning was just the result of newly found freedom.

That was a short-lived notion.

This absolutely gorgeous pup jumped out of the car, drug me up the sidewalk, and bounded through the front door.  Then she leapt straight up - just like a stealth bomber - right into the middle of the coffee table…and cleared the couch.  Our mouths flew open in disbelief.  Mark and I looked at each other.  And his remark?  Short and to the point.  “Oh,” was all he said. 

Before the end of the evening, the two of them were rough-housing on the living room floor, playing like unruly children.  “We’ll call her Dixie,” he said. 

 And even though Mark had played by the rules - Dixie was definitely one of the names on my list - his choice couldn’t have been a worse mistake.  The way to promote a calming atmosphere for a hyperactive dog, after all, is NOT to name her for an area of the country that’s famous for the Rebel Yell!

Stay tuned, Folks…the saga of Dixie, the rebel pup, has just begun.  The next installment - Dixieland Jazz - is due in a couple of days. 

Hugs!

Dorothy…