Cancun

When our friends from Nashville called from Cancun, Mexico, we did not recognize the number, because who calls from Cancun, Mexico to offer you a free trip? No one. That’s who. But every now and then the gods smile upon Jill. Never me. Only Jill. Because it was our old friends from Nashville, the ones who can afford to offer Jill a free week in Cancun.

Our friends, Todd and Sheri, had already been in Cancun for a week with one more free week to go in their timeshare. But Todd had to go back to work, and Sheri asked him if Jill could come down would he let her stay the extra free week. He said yes, and this is how Jill got a free, guilt-free trip to Cancun, Mexico.

Immediately after I told Jill she could go, she started feeling guilty, she started saying how she just couldn’t bear leaving me for a week to take care of the puppies alone. But I told her I’d be okay, that I could work two jobs, take care of two puppies and two teenage girls, of which one was my daughter, the other a friend of my daughter who came for a few days.

No problem, I said. Piece of cake. Go. Go sit in the sun. Go drink you a few drinks. Go relax. Go get a suntan. Go eat Mexican every night of the week. Go rest up. No pressure here. I can handle everything. And the catch was she had to make a haste decision. She had to tell them within an hour or Sheri was going home with Todd.

They called on a Friday, and last Saturday I drove her to the airport. She flew away. For one week. Leaving me at home alone. Now, in my mind, I figured I could get some writing done.

But I arrived back home from the airport, and the puppies were there, looking up at me with those puppy dog eyes, those eyes that said, “You stupid man. We are going to run you ragged. I pity the fool,” I heard one say to the other one. And their little plan was to make me suffer as if this was some Hollywood movie.

It started when I took them for a walk. Dogs their size need exercise—lots of exercise. Plenty of exercise. Because if you fail to give them exercise, they jump on the couch, jump on the bed. They run around the house, bumping into furniture.

So I told myself, “How hard can it be, right?”

Then I learned a hard lesson, “I’m not the Dog Whisperer.” I’m not a good leader of the pack, in fact, I’m not even in the pack, that’s how far back I am. But I figured I could handle them. So I hooked up the leashes. I put a few grocery bags in my pocket to clean-up after them. Then I headed out.

I met Sloan in the living room, and she said, “Don’t tell me you are going to take them walking. It’ll never work.”

There’s nothing like a child telling you that you can’t control two puppies. So I thought you watch me. “It can be done,” I told her.

Halfway down the block I realized that they were packing way too much hormones for a man who no longer had any hormones. With every step, they wanted to tangle up and roughhouse. They were having the time of their lives. Daddy was taking them on a walk. A little one-to-one time with Daddy.

I wanted to turnaround. Go home. Forget this crazy notion of mine. Then I heard Sloan’s voice. “That’ll never work.” And I wasn’t going to be proven wrong, not by a teenager.

So we continued, and the dogs walked me instead of me walking the dogs. It was as if this was the part in the Hollywood movie where the puppy owner is dragged around the neighborhood. Always remember that eight feet can move a lot faster than two feet.

But we made it past First Baptist and to the park in front of the Old State Bank with only a smattering of laughter from those who happened to see us, and my plan was to take them to the park and wear their little puppy feet out. Tongues would be wagging when I got through with them.

And it calmed them down. Not much, but a noticeable change. So I was confident that we could continue our walk around the neighborhood. I even took Bank Street. Walked right past Simp McGee’s. That’s how confident I was at this point. Then we came to the School Board building on Bank Street, and an element of the walk I’d forgotten about hit me like smelling sauce. Izzy did her business on school property’s lawn.

And no matter what you think of the School Board, you can’t leave poo on the lawn. Some people were watching. And you know how a dog acts after a business trip on the lawn. They get all excited. They are lighter. They are ready to run. They are ready to roughhouse again. But there is a city ordinance that states, “You must not poo on School property, and if you do, then you best clean-up after your dog.”

And this put me in a sticky situation, I had to hold two puppies—puppies that weigh thirty-two pounds each, so I had sixty pounds of torque pulling one arm while I was trying to get the plastic bag from my pocket. Then I had to bend down, trap the poo beneath a bag and scoop like a crane, leaving the barest of remains on the ground. Then fold bag, tie bag, and dispose of bag. This is how it works.

Have you ever tried to bend down and extend one arm while being yanked with sixty pounds of weight in another direction? Neither had I. I stooped, went to trap the poo, but right before I trapped it, the dogs gave an immense yank on the leashes, and I dragged across it. I tried again. This time I got it. But you cannot tie a poo bag with one hand. It doesn’t work like that. So there I was with a handful.