Showers with George

After my Grandfather died, my Grandmother thought I ought to have George. Once we’d arranged this, she kept him for a two more nights, enjoying his company and saying goodbye to her pup.

He came with several boxes of George-stuff and some instructions: how much he eats; what he eats; which toys he likes the best.

Eventually, I drove to my aunts, to get George. My Grandmother had made her peace and handed him over with grace and courage. No tears. She just cradled his face in her warm hands, looked him right in the eyes, and said “you be good, Kiddo”. She often called him Kiddo.

George came back to Bend with me. He barked at every four-legged critter we saw: horses, goats, cows, deer. My Grandfather taught him to do that, much to the chagrin of anyone who had to endure George’s berserk barking fits when Grandpa would repeat “Deer critter, George. Deer Critter”. Later, I caught my Grandfather in the funniest of tricks. (It didn’t surprise me. His whole life, he kept a twinkle in his eye that warned of playful deviance). As he was harassing his dog, whipping him into a Jack Russell frenzy, he looked around, then stealthily turned his hearing aid down. I’ve dreamed of having a mute button my dog, and Grandpa had one.

When we got back to Bend, George was droopy. I thought he might be. He was stressed and didn’t eat much. He took to me quickly enough. We’d go for walks every day in concentric circles, bigger and bigger, so he could learn his new neighborhood. But when we’d get back, he’d be depressed again.

“A few days” I kept thinking, “a few days, and he’ll perk up”. But he didn’t. A week had passed and I was worried about him.

That Monday morning, I was getting ready for work and stepped into the claw foot tub for a shower. My heart nearly burst when George barreled through the door and leapt into the shower with me, jumping up and down, snapping at the water, like a dog, possessed. I just stood back and watched in amazement.

After my shower, as I was drying off, he’d walk back and forth under the portion of the towel hanging down, indicating I was supposed to dry him off now. I did. And he was a happy dog.

I called my Grandmother and said “You won’t believe what George did”. She said, “Oh, honey—I believe that. Your Grandfather showered with George every day”!

And he’s showered with me ever since. He was happy after that. Generally, he’s a happy dog. But if I lounge too long on a Sunday before taking a shower, he sits on his pillow and stares at me. If I so much as twitch, he bolts for the shower.