GOTCHA DAY

I prepare for my short trip with a level of intent that whispers, “It’s now or never.” I spent the morning sitting in my recliner near the window, reading the paper, writing a few lines in my journal, and drinking my Saturday-morning coffee with an eagerness I could no longer keep in check. I grab my checkbook and multiple copies of my dog application. I dig into a box of that "stuff" that many people keep handy in case we need it one day. The box is filled with yesterdays we hope could play some part in our future. I find an old blanket and a used blue leash and collar, all of which I stuff into a worn Play n Stay canvas bag. I had waited long enough—time to stop looking at websites full of dogs and traveling from shelter to shelter had passed. I pack up the car and head to Little Washington and the adoption event being held at PetSmart.

I love this fluffy bed. My foster parents’ house is pretty nice. I have been enjoying the quiet and low stress. I am not great at understanding human time.

I was in a crate for a long time with other dogs. We were coming from somewhere that wasn’t pleasant. My leg hurts when I get up from sleeping. I also have some bite marks on me that I do not like to think about. The kind man and kind woman take care of me. I have learned to trust them. I like being here. It is quiet and safe. I get to sleep and eat and sleep and eat. I am feeling better. Did I say I feel safe? They are putting a harness on me—time to go for a ride.

On my drive to Little Washington, I keep thinking about all the places I had visited, hoping to find a dog. Nearby shelters. Previous adoption events. I walked away wanting to adopt but left so unsure. I felt a lot of guilt about that.

Loss is difficult. I may not be able to do this again. I want to make sure I am choosing for the right reason, but how will I know?

The Bridge to Home adoption is energetically chaotic. People walk briskly to the back of the store, where all the crates are lined against the back wall. Many of the people are families with children looking at litters of puppies managing to sleep in a giant pen while people “ooo” and “ahhh” around them.

I am here to check out two or three I saw on the agency website, the ones I envisioned becoming part of my story.  They would be good walking buddies. I looked at those with low energy that had grown out of the puppy stage.

It is so loud. People are trying to talk over barking dogs. I push myself against the background. I slowly slide past all of the dogs. I am interested, but I want to go unnoticed for now.

This is so loud.

Why are we here? I recognize the scent of some of the other dogs.

I am in a crate where I feel safe. I would prefer just to sit in my bed in here. Let me chew on my bed. 

A big dog is next to me, and a bigger one is beside her. At least I can catch a whiff of her behind, which remains pointed at me.

The kind man is standing beside me, arms crossed and talking to people. People bend down to look in the crate and say “hi.” Some slip their fingers between the wires.

I just want to sleep. This is really stressful. Could we leave soon?

The man takes me out of the crate so I can walk around with an older man and woman.

My back leg hurts, and I limp. They see it and make a sad face.

They seem afraid to touch me.  I am afraid to let them. This doesn’t feel good. I begin to walk back into the crate.

Enough. Where am I?

I move past most of the dogs, trying not to make eye contact. I see the ones from the online listing. Those will fit me. Those will be the ones who will be good for walks. Not lap dogs by any means. Definitely bigger dogs like Ranger and Charlie-Bear.

I want things as they were. Familiarity is comfort, right?

The foster parents question me. I tell my sad story that I cannot shake or finish. I tell them about my habits. I tell them about my life and home. I give them my application so they can review it in case we find a match.

One foster parent worries the red dog may be too much because she needs constant exercise and even wears out her and her family. Not a bad thing, but I am older. Another dog already has multiple people applying. I can see why. The fosters say they are happy to put my name in the mix, but there are already other people who may be a better fit for the dog.

They are all honest. They want a good home for these dogs that traveled from a high-kill shelter in Kentucky to Washington, PA. I understand. I do. I think I am going home. I have searched for a long time. Maybe this is not going to work.

I look at the last crate, where a small dog, possibly an overgrown chihuahua, is begrudgingly rising to see a visitor. An older couple is bending over to look at him. The dog seems to have a little limp that disappears as he walks back into the crate and climbs into his bed. He just wants to go home. I can relate.

Another person comes and squats down to look inside the crate. Ugh. I am just going to close my eyes and pretend to sleep.

I can hear the new person talking to the kind man who brought me.

The kind man gently pulls me out of the crate and lets me sit beside the new person. He doesn’t reach out to grab at me. He holds his hand out to let me sniff at him.

I smell other dogs, but I like this new person’s scent.

The kind man and the new person talk more. The kind man puts on my harness and leash. The new person stands and takes a few small steps.

I need to stretch this leg. Ever since I hurt myself, it grows stiff when I sleep on it. The new person and I walk down an aisle. I am leading the way. I smell something, somewhere.

Let’s get out of here.

The foster parent tells me about Quinten’s history. He lets me know he injured his leg and that it needs to loosen up for a minute or so before he can walk normally. He tells me he doesn’t know how or where the bite marks were made. He apologizes that he does not know more, but he does say Quinten has a good report from their vet.

Following us both, he lets me walk Quinten around the store. Quinten loves to sniff. He sniffs at all of the pet supplies on the shelves. He wags his tail continuously up and down the aisles. The foster says it is a good thing that Quinten is letting me walk him.

We stop beside a store display, away from all of the chaos. I squat down to see if Quinten and I have a “connection.” He immediately comes over and puts his paws on my leg and climbs on top of me.

I look at the foster parent. “This is a good thing, right?” He nods, smiles, and says that it definitely is.

Quinten sits down and begins to snuggle on my lap. We both just hang out there for a while. Life feels so peaceful at that moment. 

 “Um…I really can't leave without him. Is that going to be a problem?” The foster and I both laugh.

This new man. I like him.

We are walking out of the store. There are so many big cars driving all around us. He leads me carefully down the edge of the parking lot. I don’t want to walk anymore.

I think I will act scared. I stop and refuse to go any farther.

He squats down beside me.  “Quinten?” He looks worried as he stands as more cars drive past us.

Maybe if I shiver.

“Oh, you poor boy.”

He picks me up, tucks my legs into his arms, and holds me snugly against his chest. We begin to walk. I can hear his heartbeat, feel his breathing.

The new man puts me into the bed the kind man gave him. He takes the leash and ties it up somewhere. He sits beside me and opens a little bag.

Treat! I grab it right away.

I want another and look at him. I open my eyes wide to give him my sad look. That always worked on the kind man and the kind woman.

The new man gives me another one, rubs my back, and covers me with a blanket. I am tired. I just want to go to sleep.

He starts the car, smiles at me, rubs my back, and says, “I gotcha.”

I squirm around in the bed to get more comfortable. I stick my nose under the blanket.

“

No, I got you.”

Quinten and I want to dedicate this post to those people who work tirelessly in the animal shelters and the rescue organizations to find dogs like Quinten a safe and loving home. Countless dogs await a home in shelters and rescues across the country. Visit one today.

SELF-CHECKOUT

I believed I was becoming accustomed to life in a self-checkout world. I had my go-to stores, the ones where I knew how to access an impersonal cash register with my Rewards Card. Knowing when to grab the handheld scanner and when to pass my box of pasta over the glass scanner allowed me to easily navigate a veritable maze of hoops meant to test whether I was aware of the latest updates.

I am a good customer. I thought I knew my role in this process.

A huge heat wave was rumbling into our part of the country just days before the 4th of July. Wise people cut their grass on Monday and hit the store on Tuesday. Everyone had fair warning that the heat and humidity would make Wednesday through the weekend horrible. 

I took my Aunt Lou to Walmart with me. She was more excited than I expected when I told her we each needed our own cart and that we would meet at the front of the store in an hour. “Oh! A whole hour! That is perfect!” she smiled as she glanced at the time on her watch.

I traveled up and down the aisles with a sense of purpose. As I stuck to my list, I did not succumb to the temptations of impulse buys. I did not need everything in the world; I just wanted the bare necessities. With fewer than twenty minutes remaining, I was wheeling through the produce section on my way to the long rows of checkout registers at the front of the store.

Aunt Lou was already finished and, seeing that I had a fairly full cart, told me to take my time. And here is where the confidence of my role in the self-checkout world changed.

Three choices were in front of me. The first, and the quickest, is the supposedly fewer-than-12-items corral. Here, a wrangler herds customers to smaller, individual troughs where people with varying degrees of self-checkout expertise can scan, bag, and exit at their own rate. But I needed space, so I passed this section.

I moved to the multiple longer aisles with the conveyor belts and larger bagging areas. I do not mind these. I like the privacy and ability to spread my stuff out before scanning. The larger bagging area is a perk I enjoy as well. If I must bag purchases on my own as someone watches me, give me room. Please, just give me room.

Unfortunately, every longer self-checkout aisle was closed. All of them. That just didn’t seem right to me, not right at all. 

In a fit of rebellion, I no longer wanted to participate in the self-checkout dance. I moved down the rows of registers, desperately looking for an open aisle where someone would be to help me. I found one. Just one. Of course, there were three other customers there, each with overflowing carts far more packed than mine. Standing here was not going to work for me either.

I had a choice. Stay and patiently wait my turn while the temperature rose outside or return to the corral. My aunt was waiting, and I wanted to get home to my dog sooner rather than later. Truth be told?  I began to resent the role I had played in this entire pact I was forced into at stores. I am ashamed that I considered just abandoning the cart out of frustration.

As I pushed my cart back towards the corral, I wondered how I became so impatient. When did I start to think waiting in line was such an inconvenience? Why couldn’t I just stand still and do some breathing exercises?

I wound my cart back into the corral like a lost cow, eyes all big as I looked for an open register, finally positioning it against a scanning machine just beside the register. I was careful to provide myself with a standing space that allowed quick access to my purchases relative to the scanner and the bagging area. I was a dejected pro, resigned to doing this the hard way. 

I could no longer see Aunt Lou. Hopefully she did not wander off too far; perhaps she found a bench or chair. I hope she didn’t get ice cream because this was going to take a while. Starting with cold items, I picked up my container of almond milk, passed its barcode over the glass, listened for the beep, and then placed it in the thin gray plastic bag. That’s one. I had a long way to go.

As I continued checking and bagging toothpaste, vitamins, and deodorant together, and began on dry items, I realized the bags would soon overflow in the area next to the scanner and that there would be no room in the cart. I could not put them on the floor, right? Nor could I put them back into the cart yet. 

The self-checkout was all becoming too much. I should have waited in the line at the other end of the store. I cannot believe I thought taking a full cart through the quick checkout was a good idea. I had made a bigger mess of everything than I anticipated.

My entire self-checkout experience had ground to a halt. I began to grow warm with embarrassment. I stood lost between the mountain I had yet to scan and the valley I had already bagged. Somewhere in the not-too-distant past, this would have been easier for me to do. Why am I so stuck?

I felt the eyes of the corral supervisor rise above her handheld device. I told myself she was judging me as I stood there, watching me as if I were a shoplifter. I also feared that a hidden camera somewhere in the scanning area was recording the manic look of my confusion. Were there people behind me who wondered what I was doing?

I was the man in the arena, stumbling and wondering how I could have done this better. The critics stood silently around in my mind, there but not there. Mere minutes seemed to last an eternity.  I wiped the dust, sweat, and blood from my face and told myself that if I were going to do this, I would need to ignore the naysayers in my mind.

I pushed the cart back out of my comfort zone so that I could try this from another angle. I pulled the remaining items from the cart and stacked them carefully on the small area to the right of the scanner. I was content to leave the bigger items in the cart. Soon, filled bags and unpurchased items sat on opposite sides of the scanner. I could do this now.

I used the hand-held scanner on a big oscillating fan box, a watermelon, and my new American flag. I went to the bottom of the cart and read every single can of beans and the jumbo jar of peanut butter I had stacked in a cardboard tray. I was breathing easier, moving more slowly with newfound purpose while putting the numerous full bags on top of these cans in the cart. In no time at all, I had finished, took a huge chunk out of my debit card, and was headed out the front door with my aunt.

“I was beginning to worry about you,” she said. “I kept looking over at you. You seemed to be getting frustrated at the register.”

“I will tell you something, Aunt Lou. You will find out when you get to be my age that all of this technology stuff is getting out of control. Sometimes I don’t even know what I am doing.”

She laughed and said, “Tell me about it.”