Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Pet Peeve
I was doing the best, and the worst, part of my SPCA gig. I loved to go on TV with the animals - it was a good change of pace for me, a great way to meet some interesting people; I enjoyed seeing local tv personalities in person one-on-one, and the organized chaos of live broadcasting was exciting. Plus, it was really good for the dogs and cats I brought out - we’d pick the ones that were languisng and they’d almost always get adopted that very day. I was okay with the “limelight” aspect, too - I never got nervous about being on air. It really felt unreal, for the most part. It wasn’t like being on stage, where I could see the audience waiting for me to screw up; it was more like a dress rehearsal, but for real. Even so, I knew that mistakes could have very far-reaching repurcussions.
On the down side, it was tough to be at work once every two weeks at 5:30 am. That’s when I’d need to be at the shelter to get a dog, if I was taking one. Cats, I could bring home overnight and leave’em locked in the can. That wouldn’t work with dogs, though - our Cosmo wouldn’t have stood for it. Cat mornings were a bit easier, but dog mornings meant early wake-up calls.
Thus it was that I found myself manhandling a small frantic dog into a collar before sunrise one dark morning. This animal was going plumb crazy - hopping and jumping, yelping aqnd spinning and snapping with fear and joy that rapidly shifted back and forth into each other. It was hard to get the collar on, harder yet to snap on the leash. I finally got the hardware secure and we went outside for a formal pre-car-trip relief session; the dog leapt on me instantly with furious enthusiasm. Within seconds I felt a warmth on my pants that boded poorly: Skippy had peed all over me, and I had only half an hour before airtime. I bundled the clearly now-empty dog into the foul old company car, and hoped for the best.
The dog was crazy in the car on our short drive over to the tv station, and when I opened the door I found the protective towels I’d put down had all been kicked to the floorboards and there were fresh puddles on the seats. Great. We wrestled each other into the studio and someone got me a blow dryer for my pants and the somewhat damp dog. As I dried out, I made sure that the features producer knew my name, where I was from, and the kind of animal I’d brought; all too quickly we were called to the set to get in position for our segment. I got the nod and hit my spot; Skippy started getting jumpy again with the cameras lumbering in and the soundbooms swaying and bobbing.
The features reported came over and greeted me; we knew each other from prior spots. Lights - camera - explain yerself: “Skippy’s a sweet dog from a broken home. She’s been with us for nearly a month. She’s a terrier mix, and as you can see she’s full of energy. If you’ve got a backyard and a child in grade school, she’s just begging to move in with you. She’ll be a great friend.” And so it went for a few congenial minutes, talking back and forth about tick control and training and crap like that as I struggled with occasional success to keep our guest star in line. She kept standing up on her hind legs and I’d have to hold her in place while I tried to answer questions and look professional. But eventually our three minutes of airtime were up and I got off the set with the dog and my hairy pee-stained self, relieved that the ordeal was over.
I was greeted at the edge of the set by the floor manager. “We’re getting a lot of phone calls about Skippy.”
“That’s great.”
“Yes and no.” A pregnant pause ensued; I wondered what had gone wrong. “The lady I just talked to was typical. She said I should tell the nice man that his girl doggie has a big wee-wee.”
I closed my eyes in disbelief but it was too late to block out reality: hundreds of thousands of early morning viewers had already gotten an eyeful of Skippy’s dickie. I reran the events of the morning in my mind and realized, with all the jumping and snapping and peeing, that I’d never done the obviously critical nard-check. Lucky for me, Skippy was more in tune with truth-in-advertising laws than I was. And ever since that fateful urine-soaked broadcast, I’ve never overlooked another opportunity for gonad confirmation. Sometimes it’s a dirty job, but knowledge is power.